


The Affairs of Dwarves

by sam_ptarmigan



Series: The Affairs of Dwarves [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Courtship, Gangbang, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_ptarmigan/pseuds/sam_ptarmigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dori certainly would not have set off on a quest with twelve hobs if he hadn't thought his bearing years were far behind him. His body, however, has other ideas, and he soon finds himself with one last chance to indulge in everything he's spent a lifetime putting off for the sake of his family.</p><p>Or, the one in which Bilbo learns that you ought not to meddle in the (love) affairs of dwarves, for they are subtle and involve group sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ hobbit_kink meme.

Travel, in Dori's opinion, was a thoroughly undwarven pursuit. His were a people who burrowed. They dug their heels and their shovels into the earth, and they carved their halls out of stone with the patience of folk who knew they would still drink and feast between those walls centuries hence.

Dori himself had already suffered enough travel for a lifetime on that grim march west from Erebor, trudging along behind his mother with Nori's small, unwilling hand clutched tightly in his own. He had seen what the road had to offer, and thus, when he had set his feet upon the Blue Mountains, he had promptly rolled up his sleeves and worked day and night to build a life for himself and his family. It had taken years of debt and shrewd bargaining, with not a few favours owed and paid, but in time he had a restaurant that turned a profit, and a cosy home, and a comfortable life.

Only worry for his youngest brother (and perhaps a smaller measure for Nori) had lured him away from his bustling front of house and his comfortable apartments above. That was not to say the promise of one-fourteenth of Erebor's lost wealth did not tempt him. Chickens ought not to be counted before they were hatched, but the rain and mud and constant threat of death were easier to bear beneath the armour of dreams. Nori and Ori would come home safely, proud and prosperous. Mother would want for nothing. There would be a second restaurant—no, a tea room, for which he dizzily planned the menu while being carried aloft on the back of an eagle—and three days a week, there he would be, hosting the genteel clientele such an establishment would draw, and perhaps even enjoying an hour or two off his feet for the first time in decades.

But no, he thought wearily as the company left the great birds behind them and proceeded with bruised and battered cheer to their next camp. Not even the sweetest fantasies of rich tea and airy pastries could altogether overcome the discomforts and indignities of trekking across the countryside.

To wit: he was hot, he was itchy, and his hair was in a dreadful state. 

"Ori!" he chided, catching his brother by the sleeve as he wandered past with an armful of kindling. "Just look at the state of your coat."

" _Dori_ ," Ori groaned with such a pained expression that one would think Dori were embarrassing him rather than rightly pointing out that he could catch his death of cold if the weather turned.

"Take it off," Dori said kindly, feeling the need to do something with his hands. "I'll wash it and patch it."

"I can patch it myself!" Ori whispered indignantly, casting a red-faced glance to where Dis's sons were cleaning rabbits. He twisted out from Dori's grasp, and as he did so, his nose wrinkled. He sniffed, and then his mouth puckered as well.

Lovely. Apparently Dori smelled ripe enough that even Ori, who was still at the age where he needed to be forcibly pried out of his socks, was pulling faces at him. 

"Fine," Dori said sharply, "but I won't hear a word of complaint when you come down with a chill. I'm going to bathe."

The river proved a balm to his body if not to his nerves. He carved a sliver of soap from the bar he had luckily kept hidden in his coat, and he waded naked into the chilly water to wash himself. The cold was bracing but sweet. He had been running hot for days, it seemed, and little wonder with all this exertion. It took three good dunks to chase away the feeling that his skin was fitted too tightly, and then he lathered up his hands and set to washing himself. 

Oh.

His nipples tightened up under a single pass of his slippery palm. The tingle was startlingly keen and shot straight to his belly. A heavy throbbing in his loins answered like thunder after lightning. 

The suddenness of his arousal was surprising, but after a sheepish moment of thought, he supposed it was only natural. Battle could have that effect. He looked up and down the empty riverbank with the unseemly urge pushing persuasively at him. Not since his youth had he gone so long without a bit of self-indulgence. Perhaps just a quick turn, he thought, as his fingers crept down his belly. 

A laugh and a wisp of conversation from just over the hill put down any hope that he could finish without being caught. Clear thought returned to him and chased the notion away. The rest of the company, his brothers included, were only an arrow's shot away. Everyone might turn a deaf ear to a bit of rustling and snuffling in the bedrolls at night, but it was another thing entirely to lie back bare on the shore for anyone to see. Not least here, where he and his companions were twelve of one kind and one of the other. 

Dori sighed, making brisk work of his ablutions. Once clean, he dried himself off and unhappily put his dirty clothes back on. Then, in no mood to rejoin the camp and still stubbornly passionate and worryingly warm, he sat in the soft grass and began combing out his hair.

* * *

In a fairer world, Dori would later muse, he would still have his hog's bristle brush. Despite a proper soaking and a thorough untangling with his little horn comb, his hair was already a disaster by morning. 

Oh, all right— _disaster_ was too strong a word. Thankfully, his hair wasn't singed like Gloin's, and unlike certain scruffier members of the company, he had at least put forth an effort. Nonetheless, he could feel his beard hanging entirely crooked. The difference was subtle to the eye, but the minute pull of the braid to the left drove him to distraction with every breath and every step. 

His fingers itched to undo his work and start from scratch, but at Thorin's stubborn insistence, they walked for most of the day without any pause to indulge their injuries. Dori plucked stray threads from his coat instead, and smoothed his moustache, and cleaned his fingernails scrupulously. The low hum of arousal lingered, uncomfortably warm and carrying with it a persistant restlessness. He wanted to busy his hands. He wanted to wash and iron his clothes, and to polish his weapons and his jewellery, and then to simply sit in a snug place for a time with everything around him arranged just so.

The feeling niggled at him all day, and so it was that when they finally made camp again, he took himself to the cover of a few riverside trees and unbound his hair. This, at least, he could fix. 

"Confound it," he muttered to himself, combing out a lock of hair and trying for the sixth time to divide it into four strands of perfectly equal width.

The task was so absorbing that Dori failed to hear the sound of footsteps behind him. As it was, he dropped his comb and spun backwards in surprise when someone cleared their throat.

"I'm sorry," Balin said, sounding anything but. He was carrying a large, roughly hewn water basket that he had obviously come from filling up in the river, and he turned around with a deliberate step, putting his back to Dori. "Let me know when you're decent."

It was clear to Dori that he was being teased, and he very nearly snapped back that apparently one moment of privacy was too much to ask for. He bit off the words, however, and his annoyance receded when Mister Balin glanced over his shoulder and winked. A small grumble sufficed.

"Nevertheless," Balin said, turning back around and looking Dori over frankly, "I don't believe I've ever seen you with your hair down."

Heat rose to Dori's face, which he tried to hide as he ducked his head and retrieved his comb. Another "hmph" was all that would come before he gathered wits enough for speech. "I won't be long. It's nearly done."

Balin opened his mouth as though he meant to reply, but there it hung open. His nose twitched and his eyebrows drew together suddenly. He breathed in sharply, as if he had caught a curious scent, and Dori wondered with equal parts embarrassment and exasperation whether his clothes really did smell that bad. Then, not an instant later, some manner of understanding seemed to overtake Balin's expression, and he cleared his throat.

"It's...very warm for spring, don't you think," he said delicately. 

"Are you feeling well, Balin?" Dori asked, his brow creasing. "It isn't spring, it's midsummer."

"Yes," Balin said with curious conviction. "Yes, it is."

The words took their time in sinking in, but when they did, the comb fell once more from Dori's numb fingers.

No. No, of course not. The suggestion was simply ludicrous.

Dori was not a fool. Even his and Mother's worry for Ori would not have seen him on the road with twelve hobs if he were still in his bearing years. The time for his last three heats had come and gone, and the three before those were late, pale shadows. He hadn't even needed to miss a day of work for the last one, his scent so weak as to be masked with strong soap and a few sprigs of chewing-mint.

Those days were behind him, and he had bid them farewell with mingled regret and relief. Who ever heard of a jill his age going into heat? It had been the wonder of the neighbourhood when Mother had caught pregnant with Ori, and she had only been...

Here, the sums fell into horrified place. 

...one year older than he was now.

He felt himself turn white as he remembered Ori's wrinkled nose. He had seen that exact expression on Nori's face countless times in his and Mother's seasons. Dirty socks full of salt, that was how Nori had described the smell of kin in heat. Nature had her ways of making the madness mindful, after all. And yes, his clothes felt far too warm and heavy, even on a mild summer's day. He itched. His loins were wakeful and his hands were fretful. He knew this feeling.

"I expect," Dori said, his voice sounding very far away to his own ears as he grasped at some more palatable explanation, "that I must still reek of all that smoke."

Balin shook his head, dashing his hopes. "You smell fine," he said, and as he looked politely away, up at the boughs that sheltered them, his mouth shaped a faint 'oh', as if he were exhaling a very deep and stealthily drawn breath. He repeated, almost to himself: " _Very_ fine."

That Nori would never let him live this down was the only clear thought in Dori's head as he rose unsteadily to his feet. No weightier understanding could be borne and still let him stand. 

"I think," Balin said kindly, his eyes still generously averted, "that we ought to go have a little word with Thorin."


	2. Chapter 2

Every time that Bilbo thought he finally understood the ways of dwarves, they proved themselves once again to be an obscure and vexatious race. 

The peaks of the Lonely Mountain jutted up into the sky before them, and yet the company had barely passed out the shadow of the eyrie when they halted abruptly in their tracks to raise a proper camp that spoke of a long stay. No one had consulted Bilbo about this; in fact, no one had even bothered to tell him. One moment they were going forward in good cheer, and the next, a low mutter was spreading among the dwarves and Thorin was barking for Fili and Kili to scout ahead, and for pity's sake, be quick about it.

The young brothers soon led them to a pretty spot at the base of the mossy foothills, a few stone-throws from the river. A nearby cave was thoroughly searched, but to Bilbo's relief (for he'd had his fill of dark caverns for the time being), wooden shelters were soon erected, lean-to style, against the rocks. A large fire pit was built up in the centre of the camp, and privies were dug at its farthest edges.

All in all, this was a very sensible arrangement. The company had been lucky to escape the orcs with their lives, and now that their destination was finally in sight, what wiser course could there be but to stop for a much-needed rest? Wounds required healing, and provisions had to be replaced. In Bilbo's opinion, sleep, and food, and washing-up water did a fair bit more for a fellow's spirits than did victory in battle. 

What was it then that vexed him so?

The problem was, it was all _too_ sensible. Fresh water was collected, and fat mushrooms were gathered in newly made baskets woven from reeds, and fine fish were pulled flopping from the river. No one kicked him awake before dawn to get moving; in fact, he was largely ignored as the dwarves set forth with great energy to build and hunt and forage.

All this conspired to make Bilbo suspect that he was in fact dreaming. The whole world had seemed a little brighter and a little warmer from the moment the eagles had set them down upon the rocks. Truly, which was more likely: that Thorin Oakenshield of all people had smiled at him so sweetly and _embraced_ him, or that Bilbo had been struck on the head somewhere in the fray and was currently drooling or dead, lost to fantasies of late mornings and fried eels? 

The dwarves did nothing to reassure him that he was awake and present. They spoke of the weather constantly, in words that made no sense to Bilbo's ears. Was it spring or was it summer? The temperature was remarked upon frequently, although Bilbo did not find it unseasonably warm. And there was a question that arose again and again, apparently never answered to anyone's satisfaction: Was it going to rain?

"Ten pieces of silver says it will."

Bilbo sat up as he heard voices and footsteps approaching. He was, at that moment, reclining on a hill above the camp. He was not quite napping, not having trusted that he would be searched for if this unpredictable mood shifted and the others moved on, but he had stretched out in the shade between two rocks to rest his eyes and enjoy the quiet.

It was Gloin who had spoken, and it was Bombur who mildly replied:

"Oh, I don't know about that."

Neither appeared to notice Bilbo, but they paused nearby, looking down at the camp. They bore baskets, one filled with mushrooms and the other with plump red berries that made Bilbo's mouth water. He was tempted to announce himself in case grabsies could be claimed upon the fruit, but his curiosity to hear more won out.

"And why not?" Gloin asked. "It may not be Erebor, or even Ered Luin, but it isn't a desert down there."

Bombur hummed softly. "At his age..."

"It's known to happen," Gloin replied. "Oin says it's coming out of danger that does it sometimes. Gets the humours going."

"That isn't what I meant," Bombur said, although he did not elaborate on whatever it was he did mean.

"I'd lay good odds on my brother," Gloin said. 

"You can't bet on a thing like that!" Bombur cried, sounding thoroughly scandalised. After a pause, he added: "Besides, Bifur can be very charming when he wants to be."

"Five pieces of gold says it's Oin," Gloin said. Then he laughed, and it had a grudging sound to it. "And ten pieces of gold says it's Dwalin."

Bombur was silent for a time, and then he sighed. "I miss my Erda."

A solid thump rang out as Gloin roughly patted Bombur on the back.

"I hear that, laddie. I hear that."

Bilbo waited until the pair had ambled on before he crept out of his hiding place. He sat down at the very top of the hill, which afforded him a robin's nest view of the camp. Something about the scattering of his companions across the little valley struck him as queer, but before he could put his finger on why, his gaze fell upon Thorin—who had a way, it seemed, of making even limping appear noble. 

Thorin was circling the camp with Fili and Kili in tow. He was alert despite his slightly crooked steps, and he put Bilbo in mind of a certain farm dog belonging to one of his Brandybuck cousins, who would not let even a scrap with wolves put him off his patrol. A smile tugged at Bilbo's lips.

Could it be Thorin that Gloin and Bombur had been discussing? The puzzle pieces fit, or nearly did. Thorin had been wounded far worse than any of them, and he had too much stiff-necked pride to interrupt their journey for his own sake. Were they all perhaps pretending it was going to rain as an excuse to stay put until Thorin was well? Was Oin meant to order him to bedrest, or Bifur to charm him, or Dwalin to outright sit on him to keep him from charging on with creaking ribs?

Bilbo's attention lingered on Thorin for a long moment, and then he took stock of the rest of his companions. 

Gandalf was fishing, or pretending too. He was reclining on the riverbank with his back to a tree trunk, and though a line dangled from his staff into the water, his hat was tipped forward over his eyes. 

Not far away sat Dori, who had made a fussy little tent out of a few poles with a cloak stretched overtop. He seemed engrossed in sewing up Ori's coat. His brothers sat nearby, out in the full sunshine. Nori was puffing on his pipe, and though Bilbo was too far away to tell for certain, he seemed to be highly amused by something. Ori, in contrast, was clearly puzzled, and when Bilbo followed his baffled gaze as it was cast about, he realised what had struck him as odd about the dwarves' arrangement.

From up here, he could see that just as Thorin was blazing a circle around the camp, so too had their remaining companions made a circle around Dori, Nori, and Ori. There was Dwalin at the eastern point, one of his axes across his knees and the other in the midst of a polishing. To the north was Oin, who occasionally lifted a jeweller's glass to his eye as he worked on some small craft that glinted when the sunlight caught it. West was Bofur, who was sat cross-legged, playing his flute. The sound was faint and sweet, mingling with the breeze. Bifur, to the south, swayed slightly to the tune as he sharpened his spear. 

Then there was Balin, who was propped up against a rock, seemingly basking in the sun. Yet as the others, one by one, unmistakably lifted their heads to steal glances Dori's way, it seemed to Bilbo that Balin stealthily watched Dwalin, Oin, Bofur, and Bifur in turn. 

How very strange.

Thorin and his nephews soon completed another circuit of the camp. Upon reaching the cave, Thorin paused and seemed to take count of all assembled. Perhaps he finally noted Bilbo's absence, for he glanced about in all four directions before finally looking up. His gaze met Bilbo's sternly across the distance, and Bilbo offered a harmless little wave. Thorin started off towards him with a determined gait. Obviously, climbing steep hills was exactly what a dwarf in his condition needed to be doing right now. Bilbo leapt to his feet and trotted down to meet him halfway. 

"Fili, Kili," Thorin said sharply as Bilbo approached, "go find something useful to do. I need to have a word with Mr. Baggins."

Fili and Kili had evidently not been in favour of accompanying their uncle on his patrol, as they both brightened visibly and whirled on their heels as one to turn back to the camp. 

Thorin's hands shot out and grabbed each by the collar. "Where do you think you're going?"

"You told us to leave," Fili said with an innocence that did not fool Bilbo and thus did not have a hope of working on Thorin. 

"I thought I would go see if Dori needed anything," Kili added.

" _Kili!_ " Fili groaned, and he elbowed his brother in the ribs. 

"Leave Dori be," Thorin said firmly. "Go cut some firewood."

Kili heaved a mournful sigh, and he and Fili slunk off with a palpable air of disappointment.

Bilbo spared only an instant's thought for why the brothers might wish to bother Dori, and then he was wholly concerned with whether it was too late in the conversation to tell Thorin that he was welcome to call him by his given name. It likely was, he surmised with some disappointment, but at least "Mr. Baggins" was a decided improvement over "Hobbit" or "Halfling."

"What can I do for you?" Bilbo prompted as Thorin watched his nephews retreat. 

Thorin turned back to him with a frown. As a testament to the sturdy constitution of dwarves, the scrape on his cheek and the cut across his nose were well on their way to fading. His eyes, however, betrayed his battered state. He looked as though he hadn't slept the night before, and if such a word could possibly be applied to a dwarven king, he seemed almost...frazzled.

A long moment of silent stretched out, and Thorin fidgeted with a distinct air of discomfort. 

"Gandalf and I had words," he finally said.

Bilbo looked down at where the wizard was still napping on the river bank. "And?"

"And he was remarkably unhelpful," Thorin replied darkly. 

Bilbo laughed despite himself. "He is that, sometimes."

Thorin's expression held its thunder, but it didn't look quite as fearsome when Bilbo himself was not the cause. A scoffing sound was directed towards the camp, and when Thorin met Bilbo's eyes again, it was with a long and searching stare.

"I understand," he said quietly, "that it rains in the Shire as well."

Bilbo blinked. He pursed his lips, wondering if he had misheard the question.

Thorin merely waited, his gaze unwavering and expectant.

"Er, yes?" Bilbo hazarded. "A fair bit. Usually in the winter and spring."

Innocuous as it seemed to Bilbo, the answer seemed to hold some meaning for Thorin. He nodded slowly to himself, and then he looked Bilbo over as if he were trying to tally some unknown sum. 

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably, straightening his coat and brushing a stray blade of grass from his sleeve. 

Thorin's voice lowered further. "Then are you waiting for rain?"

It was a very good tone of voice, Bilbo reflected, in that it made him want very much to give an answer, even if he had no idea what that answer was. He put his hands on his hips and rocked on his heels as he gazed up thoughtfully at the dark blue sky. 

"I really couldn't say." The clouds were barely wisps, but he supposed after all the unexpected happenings of their journey so far, he was in no position to predict the weather. Besides, if "rain" really was code for staying put until Thorin was well again, he was not going to admit that it was as beautiful a summer's day as anyone could wish for.

Thorin narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"What? Not even a little. Thorin, I don't know what's going on, but—"

Thorin started forward with a furious expression, and Bilbo hopped back in surprise. He scrambled out of the way, but Thorin only strode past him and cupped his hands to his mouth as he glared down the hill.

"FILI! WHAT DID I _JUST_ TELL YOU?"

Bilbo followed his gaze and spotted Fili at the edge of the camp. Fili froze like a deer and then, to Bilbo's amazement, turned and scampered back into the woods.

"KILI! I CAN SEE YOU!"

Kili, who had been sneaking up from the other direction, likewise ran for it.

"I cannot take my eyes off them for one moment," Thorin grumbled in grievance, "and I only have two eyes." 

"Youthful high spirits?" Bilbo ventured. 

Thorin sighed. "Precisely. I can expect better from you, I hope."

"Of course," Bilbo said. "I don't plan to do anything but sleep and eat until we get back on the road."

He wondered what terrible things Thorin had thought of him that he could look so very relieved at the promise. 

"Truly?" Thorin asked.

Bilbo shrugged. "Yes?" 

Thorin glanced about, as if he thought someone might be listening in. A very small smile seemed to tilt the corners of his mouth. "Good. That is to say, I wasn't certain." Then he glanced over Bilbo's shoulder and bellowed: "KILI! TURN AROUND THIS INSTANT!"

Bilbo was left behind as Thorin went charging down the hill to retrieve his nephew. 

"What on earth is going on here?" he muttered in amazement.

But of course, no one answered him.


	3. Chapter 3

Any hopes that the heat would prove false were dashed as, one by one, the signs came in perfect order. The pain did not last long: a few hours of tightness in his belly, followed by a feeling like the stabbing of a pin in his side. Then all was warm and heavy, starting in his loins and spreading through him, all the way to his fingers and his toes. His clothing felt like burlap against his skin, and he had a craving for meat—the redder and rarer the better. 

He picked up the sheaf of papers he had borrowed from Ori and fanned himself for the sixth time in half as many minutes. 

"Go inside if you're hot," Nori said with far too much amusement in his voice.

"This isn't funny," Dori snapped.

"Yes, it is," Nori said. "It isn't my fault you don't have a sense of humour when you're under the weather. Or when you're not under the weather."

Dori harrumphed, and out of stubbornness he stayed out in the stifling warmth for longer than he should have before finally heaving himself to his feet. He ignored Nori's sniggering behind him and marched with as much dignity as he could muster to the cave. To his irritation, Nori was right. He felt much better inside, where it was dark and cool.

The twilight cavern was comfortably prepared. Bombur had been thoughtful enough to build a rough kiln alongside the fire pit, and what river-clay jars had been fired were filled with water and waiting for him. The floor had been spread with a carpet of soft moss, and there was even a bed in the form of several donated coats. 

This last was a mixed blessing. The coats were a recent addition, and they carried with them the faint but unmistakable scent of hobs in early rut. It was all Dori could do not to bury his face in them and let the rich musk fill his senses. His sex stirred insistently at the mere thought of it. His hands closed into fretful fists. He needed very much to touch himself.

"Oh, bother," he muttered. 

His eyes shut briefly as he made one last grasp at self-restraint, and then with a hard breath he crept back to the vestibule of the cave. He peeked out, assuring himself that his brothers were close at hand—but not too close—and that Thorin was keeping a sharp eye on all assembled. As assured as he could be, he returned to the embrace of the darkness and lay down on the springy moss.

He was already growing wet. It would not do to simply unfasten his trousers and combinations, not when he was this far into his heat. There was no scrubbing silk, and he certainly did not mean to go about smelling like a spread-legged invitation. There was nothing for it but to undress entirely, and he did so hastily, almost crying out in relief as the open air touched his naked body.

Quick and quiet was his aim, but his hands had other plans. They lingered over the subtle changes to his body. His nipples were now achingly sensitive, and the flesh beneath had filled out. He had lost weight on the journey, but the hungry, open feeling in his belly had little to do with food. His sex strained at the smallest caress, and when he stroked it, he felt a tremulous, damp flush at the entrance below.

He breathed in the mingling scent of his own arousal and the phantom musk from the company's coats. His throat locked against a needy moan as he pushed a finger inside himself. He had never in his life shared a heat, but he was not entirely untried. There had been the odd liaison with other jills, in his younger days when there was still time for that sort of leisure. Yet it was not them he imagined, but the things they had whispered to him, sharing the secret of what it was to lie with a hob.

His imagination burned as he rapidly pulled at his sex and pressed a second finger inside himself. He would be on his hands and knees, bared, presented. The slickness currently between his thighs was nothing to how wet he would be, dripping in anticipation. Then, weight on his back, hot and sturdy, and something very thick inside him, stretching him, filling him up until he could take no more...

"Oh!" The soft, breathy cry slipped out as his peak took him hard. His arms and legs trembled, and his fingers grew even wetter. His sex throbbed, and though under normal circumstances he would have to take his hand away, this time it was quite amenable to long, lingering strokes that drew out the delicious shivers that rolled through him.

_More_ , his body pleaded. _More and more and more_.

It was always so, this half-finished feeling. The pleasure of the act lingered, but the satisfaction was quick to fade. Not one of his heats had ever been fully completed, and amidst the fevers and the arousal was a persistent longing that was never quite answered. By now, he was well-accustomed to denying himself, and it was with only a little heavy-footed reluctance that he stood and washed and dressed.

He splashed cold water on his face and let a handful spill down the back of his neck before he slunk back out into the sunshine.

"Ugh." Nori pulled a face as Dori sat back down under the paltry shelter. "Did you have to?"

"Have to what?" Ori asked, sitting too far away to smell him but obviously close enough to hear Nori's muttered accusation.

"Nothing," Dori said firmly.

"He was—" 

Nori got no further, for Dori surged forward and clapped a hand over his brother's mouth.

"Nori and I need to go have a little talk."

Ori frowned worriedly, his cheeks splotched with red. "Are you going to be all right, Dori?"

Dori forced a smile. "I'm fine, pet."

With that, he hauled Nori up by the arm and dragged him roughly across the camp. To his embarrassment, heads turned as they passed, and to his annoyance, Nori chortled as he was hauled away. Dori did not stop until they were at the edge of the woods, out of earshot, at which point he advanced upon Nori furiously.

"Find it as funny as you like, but don't you dare be crass in front of Ori."

Nori showed no sign of repentance as he checked to see if his pipe-weed was still burning. "Ori's a big boy. He knows what's what. He just doesn't want to imagine pretty jills and his brother in the same thought."

"He doesn't need to be thinking anything of the sort," Dori muttered, "and anyhow, it will be over soon enough."

"It will be over sooner if you just get on with it," Nori said, tapping the bowl of his pipe before taking a puff. 

There was a wryness to his voice that Dori neither understood nor cared for.

"Get on with what?"

An eddy of smoke curled towards him as Nori rolled his eyes. "Get on with the game you always play. Collect your gifts, then decide that no one measures up to your lofty standards and have a sulk in your room until it passes."

Dori's eyes widened and then narrowed sharply. "I beg your pardon?"

Nori blew out another mouthful of smoke. "Am I wrong?"

Shoving Nori was an indisputably childish act. It was, however, preferable to punching him in the nose, and ignoring that urge was a near thing. Nori staggered back in surprise, and the fact that he made no move to strike Dori back very nearly made him sorry. 

Nonetheless, he said with great indignation: "I have never taken a courting gift from anyone!"

Nori had not dropped his pipe when Dori had pushed him, but now he fumbled it, looking shocked. "What? Never?"

Dori's chin jutted out. "Never."

"Why not?"

Nori's tone suggested that he thought collecting trinkets and love tokens was the whole point of being a jill, as of course he would.

"It would have been dishonest," Dori said, "because I never had any intention of being courted."

A frown creased Nori's brow. "You're not _that_ beautiful. Are you telling me there wasn't anyone good enough for you, not ever?"

Dori lunged for him again, but this time Nori sidestepped him. 

"You don't think you're ugly, do you? Not with how much you primp."

"Nori!"

Then Nori did something far worse than insult him. His voice went uncomfortably soft and stilted. "You had better not think you're ugly."

"It has nothing to do with that!" Dori cried. He searched for the words to explain and faltered, having never spoken them aloud once in his life, no matter how many times he had quarrelled with Mother, or with Nori, or with Ori. At first they would not come, so accustomed to being held back and diverted into petty grievances, but then they came all in a rush. "It has to do with the fact that I'm old enough to be Ori's dam. It has to do with the fact that there we were with every penny Mother had saved lost to Smaug, and Ori's sire dead in battle, and her nearly worrying herself to death over you, and someone had to be the responsible one. Mother had enough to bear, and Ori was only a child, and you were worse than a child! There was never any time to even think about courting, let alone having a—"

His teeth clicked shut together as the words lodged in his throat. He couldn't even say it: a little one. 

He deflated, the anger going out of him all at once to be replaced by a raw and hollow feeling. If you had asked him one year ago, or a month ago, or a week ago, he would not have been able to summon more than a teaspoon of regret. He had half raised Ori like his own and had experienced his fair allotment of sleepless nights and little joys. If he was not wedded to his craft, then at the very least he took great pride in his restaurant and did not begrudge one moment of time or ounce of effort he had given to it.

And yet, one year ago, or one month ago, or one week ago, he had thought that other door closed forever. 

He turned his back on Nori, determined to compose himself. It was the heat; it always made him prickly and prone to moments of melancholy. 

"What's stopping you now?" Nori asked quietly.

Dori rubbed his eyes, which were mostly dry. "What do you mean?" 

Nori stepped up beside him and shrugged, looking out at the hills as if they were enjoying the view together. "Ori's grown, whether you like it or not. Mam's doing all right for herself. _You're_ doing all right for yourself. Why not have some fun? Have a babe, or don't. Make that lot run around and do your bidding until you get tired of it. Why don't you do what makes you happy instead of grumbling all the time?"

"Because—"

Here Dori broke off again, but for another reason entirely. It was not that he couldn't give voice to the reason. It was because he had no reason. He reached for likely candidates:

Because he was not Nori.

Because the notion was utterly ridiculous.

Because he was entirely too old to be doing anything for the first time (traipsing across the country fighting orcs in search of a dragon's hoard notwithstanding).

Nori sighed. "Come here, you fitchet."

He pulled Dori down to sit down with him in the grass, and he passed his pipe along. Dori puffed morosely as Nori patted him gently on the back. Of course he couldn't accept any gifts in good conscience, because he couldn't accept a suitor. And he couldn't accept a suitor because he was in no position to grant any boons. And he couldn't grant any boons because that would be all but inviting someone (or several someones, his mind supplied unhelpfully) to try their hand at winning him. It was too silly a thought to entertain. He simply couldn't. Not here, not now. 

But if not now, then never, and if not here...where? Back in the Blue Mountains, where he would never have the boldness to try it, with his mother waiting at home and the neighbours whispering? He thought again of Dwalin showing off his axes, and Oin polishing stones, and Bifur sharpening his spearhead...of Bofur's pretty piping, and the way Dis's sons had squirmed like puppies for his attention, and those brief, knowing glances that Balin sent his way. Not the best or brightest—Balin had said it himself. Yet after all they had survived together, it seemed to Dori that they were a finer collection than the soft merchants and showy guardsmen who had come to him with trinkets in years past. 

In time, when his stomach began to whine with hunger, he returned Nori's pipe and the two of them walked back to the camp. Thorin was quick to lock gazes upon his return, but Dori paused at the edges of their settlement, looking over the assembled dwarves caught up in their industry. 

Why not, he thought. Why not just this once, if just this once was all it could be?

He hesitated another moment before clearing his throat. It was was hardly a sound at all—barely half a "hem-hem"—and yet he noted with a hot flush of pleasure the speed with which every head shot up.

"Does anyone have anything to eat?" he asked when he was quite sure he had everyone's attention. "I'm a little peckish."

Only the sound of Nori laughing like a loon ruined the spectacle that followed as half the company scrambled to their feet, weapons and baskets in hand.


	4. Chapter 4

"It's a fine omen. A very fine omen."  
  
"Fili! Kili! If you do not stay put, I will have to  _leash_  you."  
  
"Psst—Ori. Does your brother like penny buns or puffballs better?"  
  
"Ubarak magh!"  
  
"But Uncle, he's  _hungry_."  
  
Bilbo watched in bewilderment as the company leapt into action, with dwarves hurrying this way and that. If he had known that complaining of an empty belly would result in such urgency, he would not have suffered in silence.  
  
"Excuse me," he said, thinking that perhaps he could put in an order.  
  
No one paid him any mind.  
  
"Excuse me!"  
  
Bofur bustled past him, pausing just long enough to waggle his eyebrows. "Looks like rain!"   
  
Bilbo attempted to catch Bofur by the arm and only ended up dragged behind him as Bofur charged into the woods.  
  
"What is going on here?" Bilbo cried.   
  
"Mushrooms," Bofur said, still towing Bilbo along. "They'll be thinking rabbit and pheasant, but I saw him put away a whole bowl of Bombur's mushrooms last night."  
  
Bilbo forgot his questions for a moment, lost in reverent memory of what Bombur had managed with their second-last tipple of cooking oil and a few herby sprigs. "You'll want to find more of that wild parsley."  
  
Bofur halted and turned to squint at him. "You wouldn't be trying to steal my idea, would you?"  
  
"I beg your pardon?"   
  
A queer thing happened then: Bofur leaned in and _sniffed_ him. Bilbo drew back in offence, quite tempted to point out that none of them were smelling their best after so long on the road, but Bofur seemed to nod in satisfaction at whatever he had found.  
  
"You're not fetching Dori dinner, then?" Bofur asked.  
  
"I hardly think he needs my help, if everyone else is finding him mushrooms and pheasants," Bilbo said with only a touch of petulance.  
  
Bofur smiled brightly. "Grand. You can help me find the parsley, then."  
  
"Oh, all right," he said, with not so very much reluctance, as he himself was not averse to the presence of mushrooms and parsley in the camp. Then a thought occurred to him and all wistful thoughts of his home and larder fled. "Bofur? Dori isn't poorly, is he?"  
  
Dori had not looked ill or injured, sitting there under his little shelter with sewing at hand. Or rather, he had not looked any worse than the rest of them. Bilbo was coming to suspect that dwarves might be akin to cats, however, hiding silently in the garden when they were unwell. The cats, that is, he corrected himself—trying not to imagine Thorin wedged sullenly under one of his rhododendron bushes.  
  
"Oh no," Bofur said to his relief, stooping to gather a few penny buns, "just under the weather."  
  
"Is it a cold?" Bilbo asked.   
  
Bofur frowned and then repeated himself more clearly, as if he thought Bilbo had misheard him. "No, he's under the weather."  
  
"I heard you," Bilbo said, "but what sort of weather is he under?"  
  
"He isn't under the weather. He is  _under the weather_." At this, Bofur's eyebrows waggled so vigorously that it seemed they might fall off.  
  
Bilbo stared at him in blank comprehension.  
  
Bofur stared back.  
  
"Do you really not know?" Bofur finally asked, his voice dropping to a quiet and curious tone.  
  
"Not even a little!" Bilbo exclaimed. "Everyone has been speaking nonsense for days!"  
  
Bofur's eyes widened. He looked around, and then he looked around again, and then he came very close. His breath tickled Bilbo's ear, and the sound of him nervously wetting his lips was absurdly loud as such proximity. Then he whispered, hardly voiced:  
  
"Dori's in heat."  
  
Bilbo would not have been any more surprised if Bofur had told him that Dori was a wizard, or a hobbit, or even a shaved rabbit in a suit of clothes. If he had thought about it at all (and he hadn't, not really, or not in his more sensible moments), he would have assumed the company to be made up of bucks and bachelors. For who in the world had ever heard of a doe going adventuring?

"Is that  _safe_?" Bilbo asked, astounded.

"Oh, aye," Bofur said, sounding unconcerned and already heading on to the next patch of mushrooms. "If anything takes, we'll reach Erebor long before it quickens, and Dori's very sturdy."

There was a peculiar admiration to this last bit that Bilbo pushed aside in favour of more pressing questions.

"No, I mean being out here on his own," Bilbo said, particularly worried that no one else seemed to be worried. "Where is Dori's mate?"

"He hasn't got one. He's the choosy sort." There was that admiring tone again.

"Isn't he in danger?" Bilbo asked in horror.  
  
Bofur pointed excitedly to a clump of plants. "Is that parsley?"  
  
"This is serious!" Bilbo cried. Then he paused. "And so is that, because it is in fact hemlock."  
  
Bofur leapt away from the bush and then regarded Bilbo with a puzzled frown. "Is it really dangerous for hobbits, or are you pulling my leg?"  
  
"Of course it is," Bilbo said. "Or I think it is."  
  
Everyone he knew had a tale about a third cousin in Buckland or Bree who had died young as a spinster, boiled from the inside out with a heat gone unmet, or who had wasted away from pining for a buck they could never have, or who had gone mad and murdered their entire family before drowning themselves in the well. Although, when he thought about it, Bilbo had never in fact attended such a funeral in all his life, nor had he ever known anyone who had.  
  
"Are all hobbit-jills married, then?" Bofur asked.  
  
"Well, yes," Bilbo said, guessing what he meant by the term. It was a private sort of matter, but he was well aware that his cousins of that persuasion had all started courting shortly after their first heat, and had all been married by the next one.   
  
Bofur did not look impressed. "They must be easily won."  
  
"It isn't about winning," Bilbo said defensively. "It's about love."  
  
"Hold on a minute," Bofur said, cocking his head to one side. "You're not married."  
  
"Er, no," Bilbo said. "I'm not. I'm a bachelor, if you must know."  
  
"So am I," Bofur said.  
  
"Aren't you a buck?" Bilbo asked.  
  
"Is that like a hob?"  
  
Bilbo frowned. "Hob as in hobbit?"  
  
"Hob as in not a jill."  
  
"A jill is a doe, yes?"  
  
"There's nothing else like a jill," Bofur said. "Believe me."   
  
Bilbo could feel a headache coming on.  
  
"Are—" "—hobbits like men—" "—dwarves like the elves?"  
  
They spoke at the same time, and Bilbo scowled, but Bofur only laughed merrily at their mutual confusion.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Bofur said with a glint in his eye. "That ought to sort us out."

"Very funny," Bilbo huffed. "I take it dwarves don't have bachelors—proper bachelors?"

"Not a one, if you mean in-between-men. We only have jills and hobs, and more of the second than the first. That's why you don't sit on your hands one of them asks you to fetch dinner."

Bofur waved his basket of mushrooms to illustrate his point and hurried to the next scattering of caps. 

Bilbo followed, his face suddenly hot as light was shed on all the sideways speech of the last few days. "You're all  _courting_  Dori." He tried that again. "You're all courting  _Dori_."

Dori? Really? His eyes narrowed with the suspicion that Bofur was playing another joke on him. Dori seemed like a fine dwarf, of course. Certainly, he was the most hobbit-like dwarf that Bilbo had yet to meet, which was something to recommend him. Yet Dori did not look a thing like the wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked youths who had teased Bilbo with sweetness and sauciness by turn when he was a lad. He was as broadly built as any of his comrades, and just as bearded.

"No, of course not," Bofur said, shaking another bush with a questioning look over his shoulder.  
  
Bilbo nodded, and Bofur grinned before settling in to strip off sprigs of parsley.  
  
"Bombur and Gloin aren't," he elaborated, "seeing as they're both already married. Fili and Kili are too young to be of any use to anyone. Then poor Thorin's got stuck as chaperon."  
  
"Chaperon?" Bilbo asked, although what he really wanted to say was: 'Stuck?'  
  
"It'll be his job to keep an eye on things. Make sure everyone's on their best behaviour." Bofur threw him a wink. "It's a right honour to Dori, having a king stand for him. If you ask me, though, he volunteered because he doesn't trust anyone else to keep Fili and Kili from being a bother and embarrassing him."  
  
'Volunteered.' The word landed in Bilbo's ears as lightly and pleasantly as a feather drifting to the ground.  
  
"He ought to have asked Balin," Bofur continued, taking enough parsley to season a mountain of mushrooms and stuffing it down his shirt when his basket was full. "Balin's nearly as high in rank, and he's too old to really press a suit. He might put in for the show of it, but he hasn't got enough fire left to follow through. Mind, I'd not like my luck competing against Thorin, so you won't hear me complaining."

When mushrooms and herbs enough for five Doris had been gathered (or, he rather hoped, enough for four Doris and at least one Bilbo), they returned to camp for Bofur to deliver the bounty. There, Bilbo got out of the way and sat in the shade of the foothills to observe the proceedings.

The whole business was carried out much more sensibly back home in the Shire. There was none of this winking and nudging and talking about the weather. The making of fauntlings was private, of course, but it wasn't at all out of the ordinary for a relation to inquire of a mother or father whether young so-and-so had bloomed yet, or for two friends to spend a teatime visit complaining about the caterwauling Mr. and Mrs. Next-Door had kept the road awake with the night before. The matter was written about in detail in educational books, and upon the cusp of adolescence, every little hobbit received a frank and embarrassing talk from his or her parent of according make.  
  
Yet as Bilbo thought about it, he realised that as a bachelor, there was a part of nature that had always been kept hidden from him. He knew the business of courting, but that was always done out of season. Courting was young couples holding hands and strolling along the countryside with flowers in their hair and a picnic basket in tow. Neither was he a stranger to making love. He was a solitary fellow for the most part, but there had been a few fleeting romances in his youth, and a few more liaisons afterwards—with bachelor lads and lasses for the most part, but with a few unmarried bucks as well.   
  
This was something else, and now that Bilbo had been enlightened as to its existence, he could feel the excitement of it the air. He couldn't smell the call, not really, or if he did it blended subtly with the sweetness of warm summer grass and fresh water. Yet he knew that this was the secret usually kept behind closed doors in the Shire, evident only in noisy neighbours or the pleased blush upon the cheek of a young bride or bridegroom after a conspicuous week's absence from public life.   
  
Dori was not blushing, but he did look rather pleased with himself as he sat with a lapful of mending. Thorin was once again circling the camp, passing by with a lingering look at his charge. Bilbo could not help but wonder if Dori was a beauty by dwarven standards. He did seem to take great care with his clothing, and with his hair and beard, which were a particularly nice shade of silver. Nonetheless, Bilbo could not judge his appeal, and this made him wonder what he himself looked like to a dwarf.   
  
He had been considered handsome enough in the Shire, if a bit thin. That had only grown worse with all this journeying, and now he plucked at his gaping waistcoat in dissatisfaction. He then rubbed his cheek measuringly. He was growing accustomed to the look of a well-tended beard, but what did the company think of his lack of one?  
  
"Flowers," Bofur whispered with glee, crouching down beside Bilbo and interrupting his reverie.  
  
Bilbo looked at him in bafflement, and Bofur stealthily gestured to where Balin sat some distance away next to Gandalf, fussing with a pot and a lapful of white blossoms.  
  
"That's nice," Bilbo said. They were pretty—elderflowers, if he wasn't mistaken.  
  
Bofur shook his head. " _Flowers_ ," he said again, dismissive and obviously convinced that he had the winning edge with his mushrooms.

To be fair, Bofur had given them over to Bombur to cook up, and a delicious aroma was now drifting over from the cook-fire. Gloin was keeping Bombur company, and he had one arm around Fili and the other around Kili. It looked like a friendly gesture upon first glance, but Bilbo could see the way his arms locked down every time the young brothers tried to twist in their seats to look back at Dori. 

Bilbo sat up straighter as something came back to him. More bucks than does, Bofur had said, and no bachelors at all. How exactly did they manage? He nearly did himself an injury from the speed with which he glanced around the camp. They couldn't all be virgins, the unmarried dwarves—no, not with that easy waggle in Bofur's eyebrows and the way he had spoken about jills being jills. Bilbo's mind sank into a very improper and wicked place. 

Did dwarf bucks lie with each other?  
  
Now there was something that was only whispered of in the Shire, spoken about in euphemisms and vague gestures. It wasn't forbidden, precisely—a doe courting a doe, or a buck a buck—but it would surely cause a mild scandal and at least a few years of gossip. Bilbo felt his face go very hot as he imagined (solely for the sake of testing the idea's plausibility) two of the company lying down together. Thorin and Bofur, say. Or Thorin and Dwalin.   
  
"Are you all right?" Bofur asked. "I think you've had too much sun—you're all over red."  
  
He made to answer, but at that moment Bombur gave a signal that the mushrooms were ready, and Bofur leapt to his feet without waiting for a reply. Bilbo hurriedly pushed those wicked thoughts away and took note as Dori received his offerings. First came the mushrooms, savoury and peppered with parsley. Then, with a deep bow from Bifur and some muttered words in the dwarvish tongue, there were two fat wild tubers, roasted until their jackets were crisp and their innards undoubtedly fork-tender. This was followed by a fine rabbit from Oin, out of which the raw liver was offered specially.   
  
"It's good for the blood!" Oin said, holding it out upon the tip of his knife.  
  
Bilbo's nose wrinkled at the sight of uncooked offal, but Dori seemed very flattered at the gift and slid the organ whole into his mouth.  
  
The three suitors were looking quite pleased with themselves until the moment that heavy footsteps crunched the undergrowth at the edge of the woods. Bilbo counted heads quickly and realised who they were missing. All turned to look as Dwalin stepped out from among the trees—carrying an entire stag carcass across his shoulders.  
  
"Bugger all," Bofur groaned softly.  
  
Dwalin paid the others no mind, marching past them as easily as though the stag were no more than a cloak. With a grunt, he then lowered the carcass to rest at Dori's feet.  
  
Dori looked as stunned as everyone else. He reached out and rested a hand upon one of the velvety antlers. His expression, momentarily, seemed to be that of a faintly incredulous ' _For me?_ ' Dwalin leaned forward expectantly, nearly standing on his toes.  
  
"How very thoughtful," Dori finally declared.  
  
Bilbo would not have used the word 'puppyish' to describe Dwalin's grin, but only because he was still a very tiny bit frightened of him.

The other suitors only looked resentful as Dwalin happily picked the stag back up and toted it to the fire pit. Bofur gestured with his chin, and Bifur and Oin walked off with him for a private conversation. From the tense set of their shoulders and the occasional indiscreet exclamation from Oin, Bilbo suspected there was second-place grumbling afoot.

Balin chose that moment to amble up peaceably to Dori's side. Silently, he offered a clay cup. Dori took it with a puzzled frown and then sniffed the contents, whereupon he looked up again with happy surprise. It took Bilbo a moment to add two and two together, but when he did, he reflected that a cup of elderflower tea sounded like just the thing right now.  
  
"I trust it's the food that has your attention."  
  
And they said it was hobbits who walked quietly!   
  
Bilbo looked up to find Thorin looming over him, and he was poised to announce that for the third and last time, he had absolutely no designs upon Dori's virtue. However, his stomach saved him from a quarrel by choosing that moment to let out a loud rumble in support of Thorin's assertion.  
  
Far from being offended, Thorin looked mildly amused. He tossed a light cloth bundle into Bilbo's lap. "I had to confiscate those from Kili. They should hold you until the venison cooks."  
  
Bilbo unwrapped the cloth to find two handfuls of ripe red berries inside. His mouth watered, and he could not resist picking one up immediately and popping it into his mouth.   
  
"Thank you," he said belatedly as the sweet juice spread across his tongue, but Thorin had already set off and did not look back.   
  
The second tasted even nicer, and so did the third. He ate the entire portion quickly, just in case someone decided that Dori was better entitled to it. No one interrupted him, however, and as he watched everyone from his cosy spot, he thought that Dori looked quite content indeed with his cup of tea. Not that it was his place to say a word, given how privately dwarves obviously held this business, but as he watched Bofur, Bifur and Oin shoot jealous glances towards Dwalin and the stag, he could not help but wonder if they were worried about the wrong brother.


	5. Chapter 5

Dori was slow to wake from muddled dreams of hands upon him and naughty words whispered in his ear. These phantom hobs lingered, their scents buried in the comfortable heap of coats beneath him, and Dori frotted fruitlessly against his bedding, his hips chasing after a promised pleasure that ultimately eluded him. 

He turned over onto his back with a groan. His thighs were sticky and his sex was throbbing, but he was caught on the brae, halfway to his peak, and he faltered as the last of the dream faded away. He had torn his clothing open sometime in the night and was now quite naked, with his combinations dangling from one ankle. _Now?_ his body seemed to ask him, aching for the hot weight of a lover.

_Soon_ , he thought as he sternly ordered his troublesome flesh to be patient. 

The light at the mouth of the cave told him that he had slept late for the first time in recent memory. He sat up, yawned, and then got up and washed himself with cold water from the jug in the corner. The cave was beginning to feel quite homely. Dori had spent much of the day prior tidying up the vestibule and twilight cavern, as well as spreading more moss back into the darkest spaces where the air was very still and very cold. He had considered asking Mister Gandalf if it were possible to arrange for some little fairy lights and perhaps a door, but he had decided against it. Who knew if conjurings would do anything funny to the—

Well, he was getting entirely ahead of himself.

Besides, he found a certain romance in doing things the old-fashioned way. This was how his ancestors had nested, and as a youth, Dori had lingered in the epics over coy descriptions of rough, bare stone and beds made of soft evergreen boughs. This was not his comfortable bedroom, with his feather mattress and silk-edged sheets, but it held a certain charm nonetheless.

Once he had washed as best he could with what he had, he dressed and went out into the vestibule of the cave. He peeked outside to find Thorin standing guard. Heat flooded through him when he saw the dark flush upon Thorin's cheeks. If he had been noisy in his sleep, his moans might have echoed up to the entrance, and his scent might have wandered just as far. Certainly, he could smell Thorin's arousal: a rich, thick aroma that made his mouth water.

He cleared his throat in delicate embarrassment. "You don't need to hover."

Thorin's nostrils flared briefly. He jerked his chin in the direction of his nephews. "I think I do."

Fili and Kili just so happened to have set up targets and were occupied making rather showy trick shots with bow and knife. 

"They're harmless," Dori said. Bare caverns aside, these were not ancient times, and he was not in a city among strangers. There would be no breach of manners that a few good clouts around the ear would not sort out, and at his age, he was hardly in need of a chaperon. 

Yet he was thoroughly warmed by the slight softening of Thorin's expression and the way his voice dipped low.

"We've had precious little good news from the start of this journey," Thorin said with a touch of fondness. "This ought to be done properly."

Under other circumstances, Dori might have suggested that it could be done just as properly with Nori as watcher (annoying though that might be), but there was no doubt of Thorin's intentions towards their burglar. It was nearly indecent the way he had embraced him before all the company, not brow to brow like a brother, but tenderly to his chest. Dori himself could understand the affection, fine lad that Bilbo had proven to be, but he could not quite see the appeal of a beardless cheek.

"Dori!" Kili cried just after the sharp thump of an arrow finding its undoubtedly impressive mark. "Did you see that?"

"That's _Mister_ Dori," Thorin barked.

Though the breeze carried the delicious scent of their youthful sweat his way, Dori rolled his eyes. They were hardly any older than Ori—grown enough to feel the call, and strongly, but too young to answer it with any skill.

Theirs was a boyish enthusiasm, and while it was tremendously flattering, it held none of the mingled threat and promise that the attention of their elders offered. Fittingly, Oin looked his way from across the camp. His eyes narrowed, and he shifted his sturdy bulk as if considering whether he could knock Dori down.

Dori felt a sharp grin tug at his lips. _Just try it_ , he thought. _I may let you, or I may not_.

Oin held his gaze for a long moment and then returned to the craftwork spread out before him with an air of great haste.

"I'm afraid there will not be much in the way of gold," Thorin murmured.

Dori had never solicited gifts, but he had been offered a fair few in his time. They had been appropriately modest for the most part, nothing that he might not have bought for himself at the end of a profitable year: a pair of silver earrings, or a good bottle of elvish wine, or a few sachets of eastern herbs. In an odd way, those had been more difficult to refuse than the three showy offerings of diamonds and emeralds that had firmly crossed the line from gift to payment.

"It's the thought that matters," Dori said, and after procuring a breakfast of venison for himself, he returned to his cave to wait with poised expectation for his presents.

He was not disappointed. They came throughout the day, Oin, Bofur, Bifur and Dwalin, entrusting their gifts to Thorin so that Dori might accept or refuse in private. Thorin, true to his word, undertook his duties with an air of seriousness—although tinged with wryness—clearing his throat at the entrance to the cave and announcing each offer by turn. 

"Oin, son of Groin, hopes you will accept a modest token of his regard."

This for what proved to be six pretty buttons made from polished river stones. They were a lovely shade of dark green and had been brought to shining smoothness with an expert hand. The buttons were of subtly varying size and shape, owing perhaps to limited choice and a lack of proper tools, but the stylized wave engraved upon each made them a matching set. 

"Bofur, son of Scur, hopes you will accept his gift." Thorin paused and then sounded altogether too amused. "He also wishes it to be conveyed that you have a 'cracking' beard."

Appropriately, Bofur had made a handsome clasp for his braid. It was hornbeam wood, if Dori wasn't mistaken, and very ably carved. The winding scrollwork might not have taken long on a lathe, but it had obviously been cut out by hand. To his delight, it proved to be exactly of a size with his pewter clasp, made to measure as if he had commissioned it himself.

"Dwalin, son of Fundin, hopes you may have use for this weapon."

A knife was offered to him by the hilt. Its blade was made of bone and the handle from antler. It was plain work, but graceful in its shape, and the grip sat very well in his hand. Just like Bofur's gift, it spoke of forethought, and it had the additional effect of making Dori think about the size of Dwalin's hands in comparison to his own. 

He tested the edge of the blade with his thumb and pretended to consider its keenness in order to hide his blush.

"Bifur, son of Ozur, hopes you will accept...this."

Dori looked with some puzzlement at the small, delicate thing perched in Thorin's palm.

"I believe it's a fish," Thorin said in a tone that suggested he thought he was being helpful.

"Yes, of course," Dori said. It was indeed a fish, or a cunningly made sculpture of one, comprised of long, sleek, interlocking strands. A tiny, glinting skull gazed up at him fathomlessly. 

"I believe it is in fact made of fish," Thorin added.

"So it is," Dori conceded. 

The fragile bones seemed to be hung together by nothing more than air, and each had been covered in scales until they gleamed like silver. Dori picked up the little toy carefully and found that the spine pivoted upon two hinges, mimicking the natural motion of a swimming fish. It really was ingenious, if a touch off-putting.

Thorin raised an eyebrow. "Will you accept it?" 

"Of course," Dori said evenly. "It would look lovely on my mantel."

Thorin's eyebrow climbed higher.

"It's whimsical," Dori insisted.

He was not about to admit that he had a terrible weakness for well-spoken Khuzdul. If Bifur's neat hand with a braid was not persuasive on its own merits, then his formal, old-fashioned way of speaking was nearly enough to make Dori accept a live, flopping trout as a present had it been offered. Everything sounded like poetry in the old tongue, and poetry had a way of turning Dori's knees to water.

"As you wish," Thorin said with altogether too much of a smirk for someone who apparently liked furry feet.

Dori took his time in arranging his gifts, seized by that seasonal urge to touch everything he owned and place it just so. The vestibule was a jagged cavern containing several jutting shelves and a pair of deep potholes. He lined up the buttons on one ledge and set the clasp at an angle beside them. The knife was propped up on the opposite wall, and the fish was set near the entrance of the cave where it caught the light and sparkled. 

He then sat down and admired his new belongings, his hands folded in his lap and his ears perked for the sound of approaching footsteps outside. Anticipation nibbled at him as he tried to imagine what his final gift might be. Eventually, he was driven back to his feet. He arranged the buttons in a circle and decided that the knife really would look better facing the other way.

When no further gifts were announced, it occurred to him that Thorin might have taken a break. Perhaps Balin had come calling only to find the post empty; or perhaps the two were speaking together elsewhere at this very moment. Dori stuck his head out of the cave to see for himself, but Thorin was sitting just outside, his sword across his lap.

"Do you need something?" Thorin asked, glancing up at him.

Dori scanned the camp, not seeing Balin at all, and then shook his head and went back in. He decided to take a nap and retreated to the back cavern. There, he threw himself down with a disappointed huff of breath and then burrowed into the pile of coats and slept lightly for a time. 

"Dori?"

He stirred when he heard the soft echo of his name. His eyes peeped open. The light said that he had not slept more than an hour. 

"Dori," Thorin prompted again.

He delayed only to make certain there was no moss clinging to him before hurrying up to the vestibule, his features schooled into an expression of gracious expectation. His face froze, however, when he saw that there was nothing in Thorin's hands. This turned to a frown when he saw Nori, and then to a slightly milder frown when he saw Ori.

"I need to talk to you," Ori said.

His annoyance melted into concern. "What's the matter?"

Ori glanced about in a nervous fashion. "I just need to talk to you."

"Come inside." He took Ori's elbow gently.

"No!" Ori protested, sticking in his heels. "Not here, I mean. I need to talk to you...somewhere else."

Now Dori felt a genuine prickle of worry. "Why?"

Ori looked momentarily blank and then turned to Nori.

"Because it stinks in there," Nori said flatly.

Dori was somewhat placated by Thorin's hum of disagreement and settled for glaring mildly. "Fine," he said for Ori's sake. "I could do with a walk."

Attention followed him as he passed through the middle of the camp. Fili and Kili all but squirmed at the sight of him. Bofur tugged on his hat, and Oin let out a quiet growl. Dwalin's eyes tracked him slowly, and Bifur offered a small, crooked smile. Dori would have enjoyed it more if Ori weren't leading him away with such worrisome insistence, and for a moment he considered dropping a handkerchief to see if the others would fight over it, but he only had the one left. 

Pity.

"Well?" he asked when they were over the nearest hill and out of sight. "What's the matter?"

Ori hesitated and looked once again to Nori, who nodded. Then Ori seemed to visibly steel himself and said: "I need a haircut."

Dori blinked in both surprise and relief. "Is that all?" He reached out and examined the overgrown strands of Ori's hair. He did need a trim.

"Yes?" Ori said uncertainly. He sighed. "Can you cut it?"

"Of course," he said, patting Ori tenderly. He could not remember the last time his brother had willingly sought him out for care, but little wonder if poor Ori was feeling neglected in all this fuss. "It will have to wait until morning, though. I don't have my scissors and I'll need better light."

"Wait!" Ori cried in alarm when Dori turned to go back.

"What is it now?" Dori asked in bewilderment.

Ori was not a very good liar, Nori having got all the family talent there. He had a habit of screwing his face up and rolling his eyes back as if the answer he was looking for was written on the inside of his skull. He did so now and eventually blurted out: "Nori's got a rash."

Nori, to Dori's surprise, let out a laugh. "Not bad. There's thinking on your feet."

"What is going on here?" Dori demanded.

"He's distracting you," Nori said, "and he's not doing a terrible job of it."

"Nori!" Ori said. "You said you'd help."

"I am helping. Sometimes you need to resort to telling the truth to get what you want."

Dori put his hands on his hips and glowered at them both. "Out with it. Now."

Ori's shoulders hunched. "Mr. Balin asked me to keep you busy."

"And why would he do that?" Dori asked.

Nori elbowed him. "You're as bad at acting modest as Ori is at telling lies. He's trying to surprise you."

"Hmph," Dori huffed, and though he felt a pleased tingle in his belly, he did his best to sound put out for the principle of the thing. "And how long exactly am I supposed to be kept out here?"

"Until Mr. Balin sends the signal," Ori said glumly, sitting down.

Dori sat beside him, and Nori joined them.

"Dori?" Ori asked after a moment. 

"Yes, pet?"

"Are you going to have a baby?"

Ori looked appropriately embarrassed to have asked such a thing aloud, but there was a stubborn curiosity in his expression that Dori found he could not deny.

"I don't know," he said truthfully. "Maybe. What would you think of that?"

"It would be nice, being an uncle," Ori said, sweet lad that he was. His little smile widened. "Mam would have kittens when you got home."

"She would," Dori agreed, warmed through when Ori clasped his arm and bumped brows with him. 

"Sorry," Ori said, breaking the embrace after only a moment and drawing back to sneeze. "You smell like that mouldy cheese in Mr. Bilbo's pantry."

Nori let out a loud laugh and clapped his hands. "That's it! That's it exactly!"

Dori kicked him, but not very hard. They sat together for a time, the three of them, until the call of a suspiciously early owl hooted from the camp. Nori cupped his hands to his mouth and answered it before looking at Dori aslant. 

"Try to look surprised," he said dryly. 

That was not very difficult, as Dori had no idea what to expect. Thorin's hands were still empty when he returned to the cave, but he looked particularly amused as he saw Dori approach.

"Balin, son of Fundin, hopes you will accept a small token of his regard." With that, he gestured towards the cave.

Dori cocked his head to one side, puzzled.

Thorin shrugged in a 'don't ask me' manner. "I told him he would have to clean it up himself if you refused."

The humidity was his first clue upon entering the vestibule. The change on the air was subtle, but he had come to know the ways of his little cave very well over the days past. There was a new smell—or rather an old familiar one. Hot, clean water on stone, such as could be savoured in the bath houses and saunas of home. 

After so long on the road, he might have sniffed out the source by his nose alone, but the gleam of light on water caught his eye in an instant. One of the shallow potholes in the vestibule had been filled with boiled water to make a bathtub. A bar of grey soap sat on the ledge beside it. The soap proved to be hand-shaped and almost scentless, likely made of nothing more than fat and ashes and some birch leaves, but it was a brick of gold compared to the dwindling, lavender-scented sliver tucked away in Dori's coat. 

Dori sat on the ledge and swished his hand through the hot water. 

"Well?" Thorin called out. "Do you accept?"

" _Yes_ ," Dori called back with a touch of impatience, because _honestly_.

He waited until the water had cooled to a perfect lukewarm, and then he undressed. A little voice in his head clucked over the daring of a gift that required the removing of clothes. Given that Dori had obviously not refused the offering, Balin could surely guess that he was naked at this very moment. It was practically roguish, to say nothing of the implications of giving him a lovely bar of soap that would nonetheless do nothing to mask the smell of his heat.

Dori climbed into the makeshift tub, finding the rocky shelf that would serve just fine as a seat. The water embraced him deliciously, just-warm-enough against his sensitive skin. He sank down to his chin, looking with great satisfaction upon the arrangement of his gifts, and then he closed his eyes with a happy sigh.


	6. Chapter 6

All in all, Bilbo thought, dwarven courtship looked surprisingly respectable.

The moment this observation crossed his mind, he paused warily, certain he would come to regret it just as he had all his previous presumptions about dwarves. Yet as he looked across the camp at the sight of five fully grown dwarves hunched over their little courting gifts, he was not inclined to rescind it. Honestly, it had been unkind of him to assume that dwarf bucks would be in the practice of attacking each other with axes or conking a doe over the head and dragging her off solely because they were fierce warriors not overly acquainted with table manners. 

In his defence, hobbit bucks could be bad enough when moved by the season. Every spring, several brawls invariably broke out at the pub, and when Bilbo was very young, he'd had more than one young doe of his acquaintance hang off his arm and sigh longingly: "Why can't bucks be more like bachelors?"

That was not to say that bachelors like himself were immune to jealousy, but Bilbo had never in his life felt the urge to strip off his shirt and hit someone in the face with an ale glass. 

Having been deemed a disinterested party, Bilbo was free to wander through the camp and watch the suitors without any rebuke. There was a small stir early on when Dori came out of the cave for breakfast, with Fili and Kili insistently showing off their aim, but for the most part all was pleasantly calm and industrious. Dwarves really could craft art from anything, it seemed, and Bilbo studied their work with great interest—sitting for a time beside Bofur to watch him carve a hair clasp, or peering over Bifur's shoulder as he pasted silver fish scales one by one onto bones no larger than a toothpick. 

He was acutely aware of Thorin watching him throughout the morning from his post outside the cave, where he stood guard like a particularly fearsome and well-armed maiden auntie. Such scrutiny might have been intimidating under other circumstances, but there was something uncharacteristically mild about Thorin's gaze, and it left Bilbo itching to loosen his collar. He fetched himself a cold drink instead, and as he was filling a cup with water, it occurred to him that Thorin was likely thirsty as well, and he filled a second cup before finding some of last night's smoked venison and bringing it to the cave.

"Good morning," he said, handing over what was to his mind a very sorry breakfast.

Thorin looked impressed with the meagre meal nonetheless and took it graciously. He sat and gestured for Bilbo to join him. 

Bilbo sat down happily and made the best of his portion, quashing down daydreams of fresh scones and double cream. He floundered for conversation and finally resorted to looking up at the sky.

"It's going to be a lovely day," he commented, and then he paused and leaned closer to confide: "That isn't code for anything else. This is genuinely small talk."

To his pleasant surprise, Thorin laughed softly. The corners of his eyes crinkled charmingly. "It's a fine day."

"Is everything...going well?" Bilbo asked, nodding awkwardly towards the opening to the cave.

Thorin nodded. "Everything's fine."

"Dori seems to be in good spirits." He was not sure if he was overstepping his bounds, but he had not missed the small, smug smile that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on Dori's lips. It was oddly reassuring to see him so pleased, after all the times that Dori had seemed to echo Bilbo's worries along the journey.

"He's fine as well," Thorin said with the same expression of fondness with which he occasionally regarded his nephews—when he wasn't shouting at them.

"Good," Bilbo said. 

"Yes," Thorin replied.

They sat together for some time, eating slowly and in silence, before Bilbo became gradually aware that Oin was glaring murderously at him from across the camp. So was Dwalin for that matter, and even Bofur was rolling his eyes with exasperation. He briefly choked on the last bit of venison and then murmured urgently, "Why does everyone look like they want to kill me?"

Thorin did not seem remotely surprised. "They are waiting for a word with me."

"Why didn't you say so?" Bilbo said, scrambling to his feet. "I didn't mean to keep you."

"You weren't keeping me," Thorin said, granting him a look that Bilbo could not quite decipher. 

"Er," Bilbo said before a pointed clearing of the throat from Oin hastened his retreat. "Sorry," he added, partly to Thorin, and partly to the others, and partly to the world at large as he stepped aside. 

He made his way to a discreet vantage point and settled in to watch as Oin charged forward with the little river gems he had been polishing. It was the role of the chaperon, Bilbo deduced, to accept the courting gifts on Dori's behalf and relay them to him in private. Thorin would then step back outside and give the gifter a nod, presumably indicating that Dori had accepted.

Bofur was next, and he joined Bilbo after just such a nod, collapsing into the grass beside him with a laugh of relief. 

"Success?" Bilbo asked.

"For now," Bofur said with a grin, and they both watched idly as Dwalin made the next approach a few minutes later.

Despite the fact that Thorin and Dwalin seemed to be bosom friends, Bilbo could see no partiality in the way the knife was received. Both dwarves stood stiffly, as if the speech they were exchanging was spoken by rote.

"Is dwarven courting always so formal?" Bilbo asked, supposing that if anyone might give him an honest answer, it was Bofur.

"Oh no," Bofur said, "only when it's raining, if you take my meaning."

"How is it done otherwise?"

Bofur shrugged. "The usual way. Talking. Sharing a meal. Fooling about. Why?"

"No reason," Bilbo said hastily.

"Do hobbits do it differently, then?"

Bilbo shook his head. "Not really, in either case. There's more food, generally. A suitor is expected to come to dinner, and courting couples often go for picnics. Mind you, while hobbits sometimes have more than one suitor, I've never heard of anyone having five."

"Ah, well," Bofur said, "Dori's a catch. The boons might whittle it down, but I don't think so, seeing as he took everyone's gifts."

"Boons?" Bilbo asked.

"Aye, that's the next bit." Bofur counted off on his fingers as he explained: "First a jill lets it be known they're taking offers. Then all interested parties make a gift and offer it. If your gift is accepted, you can ask for a boon. If your boon is granted, then there you are."

Bilbo smiled, reflecting that it did indeed sound very proper. "When will you know his choice?"

"I'll be asking for my boon tomorrow, and I reckon the others will do the same. If it's choosing a mate, you mean, then a jill's got one month from the date to make their pick."

"We could be here a month?" Bilbo asked in surprise. Not that he was opposed to a nice long rest in a relatively safe and abundant valley, but it was hard to believe that Thorin would be so equable about tarrying that long.

"I wouldn't think so," Bofur said. "We'll head out as soon as it stops raining. I'd wager we'll only be here a few days more."

Bilbo frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand. How is Dori meant to pick after he's...er, after the rain's stopped."

Bofur frowned back at him. "How's he meant to pick before?"

"By choosing who he likes best?" Bilbo said.

"How's he meant to know that until he sees who did the best job?"

"The best—" Bilbo bit his tongue. His eyes widened.

Bofur peered at him in curiosity from beneath the brim of his hat. "Is that not how hobbits do things, then?"

"Of course not!" Bilbo said, his voice entirely too loud and too high.

"Shh!" Bofur chided.

Bilbo glared in indignation, but he did lower his voice to a whisper. "Pardon me, but it seems a little strange that you can't even say the word _heat_ —"

"Shh!"

"—if the lot of you are carrying on like _that_."

To his annoyance, Bofur's expression shifted from put-out to amused. "You think we're shy?"

"You're the ones pretending Dori's a raincloud."

Bofur laughed. "T'isn't shyness, Bilbo. It's good sense. Feelings run hot when the weather turns, y'see, and no one wants to look like an arse. So if none of us made an offer to Dori—if we were all married or stupid—then maybe he was only ill after all. And if he didn't want me sniffing around, then maybe it wasn't because he thought I was elf-ugly or ill-mannered, but because my gift was made from hornbeam and he only likes oak. You don't want sore feelings, not when everyone's rutty and carrying weapons."

Bilbo took a moment to absorb the information. It really did make sense when put that way.

"Wait," Bofur said, seeming to think of something abruptly. "You said all hobbit-jills were married. Do they all pick their mates before they're bedded?"

"Yes," Bilbo said, "that's really considered rather important." For simplicity's sake, he left out the bit about the aforementioned picnics often involving a little more than kissing but a little less than bedding. 

Bofur pulled a face. "How's a jill supposed to pick if they don't know what kind of lover you are?"

"Well...I suppose he or she can tell by the way you kiss, and if you're gentle and kind." This did not sound entirely convincing to his own ears. He was speaking second-hand, being a bachelor who had been allowed to do more or less as he pleased, given that he was incapable of getting anyone in trouble or being got in trouble in turn. "Look, people can't just go sharing heats willy-nilly. What if a baby comes?"

Bofur brightened. "That would be grand."

"But how would you know who the father is?" Bilbo pointed out.

"Dori's husband would be, if he took one."

A dreadful thought suddenly occurred to Bilbo. Was it possible that dwarves did not know exactly how babies were made? He had the sudden urge to shout for Gandalf, but something told him that bringing in the wizard for a lecture on the birds and the bees would only make the situation worse. 

"But what," Bilbo said carefully, "if Dori didn't take a husband?"

Bofur shrugged. "Then he doesn't take a husband. He and Nori and Ori all have different sires, and their mum never married." He grinned at Bilbo. "Not that I'd say no to marrying Dori, mind—he's got his own business, you know—but I've a feeling he only wants me for my youthful good looks."

That raised at least three other very troublesome questions, but Bilbo persevered. "I mean, if Dori had a baby and didn't marry anyone, how would you know whose baby it was?"

Bofur's answer both reassured him as to the scientific knowledge of dwarves and disabused him of any last conviction of their propriety. 

"It wouldn't matter then, but usually it's the first to have a go. Mind, some say the one who goes last has a better shot." He leaned in and whispered, "They say you sow more seed, the more that have gone ahead of you."

Bilbo opened his mouth and then promptly shut it. He knew he ought not to ask, but he could not help himself. "Just to be very clear, you're all going to be—" _making love to Dori_ "—pressing your suits at the same time?"

"Not exactly at the same time," Bofur said, making an obscure hand gesture that Bilbo did not want to parse. "Mostly one at a time. Although some overlap's only to be expected, you understand."

"Of course," Bilbo said faintly. 

Bofur elbowed him in the side. "And don't go jinxing things. I haven't had my boon granted yet."

"Sorry," Bilbo said. He quietly resigned himself to both never being able to look Dori in the eye again and possibly finding an out of the way place to engage in a spot of self-abuse while wrapping his head around the particulars. "Best of luck."

"Thanks," Bofur said, patting him on the back. "You're a good friend, Bilbo Baggins."


	7. Chapter 7

Dori was not at all inclined to leave his bed the next day. Dawn came, and he pulled a cloak over his head and ignored it. The light grew as the morning settled in, and he turned over with a grumble, burying himself in the pile of coats and willing the sun to go away. 

He had forgotten how much he hated this part. His body was gathering its strength for what lay ahead. Sleep, it told him persuasively. Fill your belly. Sleep some more. This had rankled far worse when it meant having to send word to the restaurant announcing his absence, but even now he struggled against this instinct to be idle, which ran contrary to his nature.

Eventually, he managed to stagger to his feet and find the breakfast that someone—Thorin his sleep-muzzy mind provided—had left for him in the vestibule. His stomach gave a noisy curmurring, and he snatched up the venison and mushrooms and took them back to bed with him. He ate with his fingers, bolting the food down, and nearly licked the plate clean afterwards. 

He could not resist the urge to curl up again. What he really wanted was a nice bit of mutton—no, beef. Rare to the point of bloody. Broad beans in butter. Cherries poached in wine. He wanted his mother, who at this point in his heats would always come to his apartments with a hamper of food, tutting that she would think someone with a restaurant would keep more than a bit of cheese and stale bread in the house. They had their differences, he and Mother, but when he was feeling like this, she would always stroke his hair and make him a pot of tea and tell him he had the right idea, going it alone.

The memory brought him bolting upright. Gracious, he could hardly sleep the day away when he had suitors coming to call! 

Dori threw off his makeshift blankets and gathered up his clothes. He washed and dressed and fixed his hair. A moment was spent mourning all the more suitable outfits at home in his wardrobe, but he made do with giving his coat a good beating. Then, quashing down a tiny voice that worried no one intended to come petitioning, he stepped outside.

"Oh thank every little spirit," Thorin muttered fervently when he saw him, putting that little worry to rest. "They've been buzzing about like gnats all morning."

Dori followed Thorin's glare as it swept around the camp, coming to rest with particular pique upon Bofur, who was sitting some distance away with the company's hobbit. As if sensing the dark look, Bofur glanced up, and Thorin's gaze lost some of its suspicion as Bofur immediately scrambled to his feet, leaving his companion behind without a word and setting off quickly in Dori's direction.

On the other side of the camp, Dwalin seemed to spot him at the same moment and likewise began striding towards him. Dori privately put his money on Dwalin, who had much longer legs, but the odds were shifted by a late-race incomer as Kili—a determined expression upon his face—made his own beeline for the cave. Dwalin veered off course to intercept him, catching him by the collar. A small scuffle ensued in which Kili took a swing at Dwalin who, rolling his eyes, was forced to pick up the pup by his scruff and belt and hurl him back towards Fili and Bombur.

Bofur took advantage of the delay, a hop-skip bringing him to Dori far in the lead. He doffed his hat and bowed deeply with a cheeky grin upon his face. 

"At your service."

"Come in," Dori said graciously, as if he were ushering a guest into his home. 

The vestibule would have to do for entertaining, as it would hardly be proper to let a suitor venture into what was essentially his bedchamber. It pained him not to be able to offer any suitable hospitality in the form of refreshments, but Bofur looked pleased simply to have been invited inside.

"Love what you've done with the place," Bofur said, peering about and brightening when he saw his gift in a place of honour upon the shelf.

Dori sat down on one of the stone ledges and gestured for Bofur to speak like a comrade.

"Well," Bofur said, turning his hat over in his hands, "I was hoping you might see your way to granting me a boon." 

'Yes' was the reply that sprang immediately to Dori's tongue, but he had the good sense to stop the word before it was given voice. It was true that Bofur had lovely eyes and a charming smile and a pleasing manner that was merry when it was not vexatious. There were few things he could request that would make Dori dismiss him as a suitor, but being both a pragmatist and a dwarf of business, Dori never entered into any agreement rashly.

"What would you ask for?" Dori inquired politely, as though it were possible that Bofur had come to borrow a cup of flour.

Bofur looked at him from beneath his eyebrows, which gave him the distinct appearance of being up to no good. "You're a dab hand at braiding," he said. "Would you do me the favour of having a try with my hair?"

Dori had never before got as far into courting as the granting of boons, but he was not without confidantes who had. 'There are two kinds of hobs,' his friend Halma had told him once. 'The bold ones will ask for a kiss or a cuddle, but the clever ones—ah now, the clever ones will find a way to sit with you for a good long while.'

"It's clean," Bofur assured him anxiously, holding up one pigtail plait. "I just washed it yesterday."

It would be very wicked of him to hold his tongue just to make Bofur squirm. As it was, he simply gave the request a respectful moment of consideration before deciding he was flattered. He took his comb out of his pocket and tapped his toes upon the ground before him.

"Sit."

Bofur threw himself down eagerly, settling in cross-legged at Dori's feet. The deep breath he drew in was not very subtle, nor was the heady sigh that followed. Dori's cheeks warmed as he caught Bofur's scent in turn, and he shifted where he sat, a tingle readily conjured between his legs.

He unbound Bofur's plaits and untangled them with his fingers. The locks were pleasantly sleek and cool to the touch, and when the pad of his thumb brushed over the tip of an ear, Bofur shivered.

Dori cleared his throat delicately and followed up with his comb. "Your hair isn't bad at all. I can't see why you don't do more with it."

"Ah well," Bofur said, leaning back against Dori's knees, "it only gets dirty in the mines. Besides, I haven't the knack."

That rutty scent grew subtly heavier as they touched, making Dori's nose twitch. He combed out Bofur's hair until it was shining and then parted it into three sections, each of which he plaited with fishbone braid-work. The three plaits were then rolled into a bobtail and secured with one of Bofur's leather ties. 

Dori fussed over the results, feeling very warm and disinclined to let Bofur leave just yet. Despite priding himself on a good nose for wine and spices, Dori could find no fitting words for the smell of a well-roused hob up close. There was salt there, yes, and musk, but far more tangible was the effect it had on him. His mouth watered, and his nipples tightened, and he grew harder and wetter the more he breathed it in. 

"There," he said, his voice slightly strained, when he had finally tugged and straightened and smoothed all he could. 

"That's grand," Bofur said before he had even reached back and carefully patted the arrangement. He sounded suspiciously out of breath for someone who had been sitting still. "Bombur'll be jealous."

"Take care with it," Dori felt the need to chide, out of habit after years of seeing to Nori and Ori's hair. 

Bofur craned his neck, grinning at him upside down. "I'll sleep on my stomach, I promise."

With that, he stood and made a hasty bow. Perhaps it was only that promise that kept him from jamming his hat back onto his head and undoing Dori's work as he took his leave, but it seemed to Dori (who was not staring, or at least not very obviously) that he held the bundle of fleece quite firmly in front of himself as threw one more grin over his shoulder and sidled out of the cave.

No sooner had Bofur taken his leave than Thorin announced Dori's next suitor.

"Dwalin, son of Fundin, very patiently requests an audience at your conveni-ence."

Thorin's tone was as dry as dust, and the last word broke curiously at the end, coinciding with a muffled thump that sounded very much like someone being punched in the arm.

"Send him in," Dori said brightly, still tingling pleasantly from Bofur's visit.

Dwalin paused only to set his weapons down outside before striding into the vestibule and bowing. "At your service," he said, his voice low and rumbling. 

Dori could see the change that came over Dwalin as his scent made itself known. His nostrils flared and the blacks of his eyes visibly widened. He licked his lips and looked Dori over very slowly as he straightened up from his bow.

"What can I do for you?" Dori asked, supposing that as long as staring had been put on the table, he might as well gaze his fill of Dwalin's broad shoulders and thick arms. Under other circumstances, they would only have warranted a brief glance of admiration, as in fact they had in the past, but at the moment Dori's body had very firm opinions on the matter of strength and stamina.

Dwalin smoothed his moustache—a charming motion—and then said, bluntly, "I'd have a kiss, if you'll give me one."

Dori found that his body had a very firm opinion on that as well.

"Yes," he said rather more quickly than he should have. Then, with a shrug of 'in for a pennyweight, in for a pound,' he stood up, strode over to Dwalin, and grabbed hold of his beard.

One firm tug brought Dwalin down to his level, and their mouths joined eagerly. Dori's lips parted and his knees gave a distinct wobble. Up close, the warmth of Dwalin's body and the deep scent of his rut were overwhelming, wrapping around him like an embrace. Dwalin cupped his jaw with both hands, pushing harder, and Dori felt a hungry growl roll in his throat. 

His back hit the wall. He pulled again at Dwalin's beard and wrapped an arm around his neck, half ready to lever himself up and climb the fellow like an oak tree. Dwalin moaned low against his lips, his tongue teasing deliciously against Dori's own. Dori's hips jutted forward, and he thought that it might take only a few rubs against Dwalin's thigh to sort him out, just a few—

" _Ahem!_ "

Dwalin pulled back and looked over his shoulder to glower at Thorin, who was peering into the cave with a pointed expression. 

Dori sagged, his hands clutching at the wall behind him to hold himself up. He cleared his throat, tested his voice, and then cleared his throat again.

"Ah, thank you," he said, although whether he meant to direct it to Dwalin for the kiss or to Thorin for doing his duty, even he was uncertain.

Dwalin obviously took it for the latter. "Aye, thank you," he muttered with dark insincerity in Thorin's direction.

Dori drew a deep and steadying breath and then gently pushed Dwalin back, his hand lingering a moment too long upon a hard stomach. His fingers twitched with the urge to creep down just a few inches to the impressive (and slightly intimidating) bulge below. Then, with what he thought was admirable self-restraint, he withdrew.

"I will see you later," he said politely.

He intended the words as an invitation for Dwalin to see himself out, but his winded tone made it sound like the promise it was. Dwalin smiled a very dangerous smile—oddly sweet and laddish—and bowed to him once more.

"Aye, you will."

Dori had a chance to catch his breath with Oin's visit, but only briefly. 

"I would hear you sing," Oin said, sitting down immediately after bowing as if he had no doubt that Dori would indulge him, and sitting very closely to boot. This was excused by a waggle of his hearing trumpet, as if he could not possibly be expected to leave an inch between them and still enjoy a song.

Had Oin genuinely been trying to put one over on him, Dori might have drawn away out of annoyance, but there was a slyness in his expression that invited Dori into a shared conspiracy. Dori had never been one of nature's rule-breakers; once again, the family quota had been spent entirely on Nori. Usually, the thought of stepping out of bounds gave him a stomach-ache, but at the moment he was willing to concede that perhaps, on occasion, a little naughtiness could be thrilling.

"What would you have me sing?" he asked, leaning in very slightly so that he felt the warmth of Oin's body against his own.

"Whatever you like," Oin said, and he idly stroked one of the handsome braids in his beard in a motion that arrested Dori's attention.

Something long, Dori decided, and with a hum to put himself in key, he began the first verse of "The Blacksmith's Lover."

"Farewell, my bonny blacksmith,  
Farewell my ane true love,  
For drums of war do beat their call  
And to the west lands I must go  
With axe and sword to slay the foe  
For clan and lord and hall..."

Dori's voice was strong and passably fair, and the mild old song was no strain upon it. The words came easily enough to him that he did not falter as his arousal at Oin's nearness grew, or when Oin's hand settled heavily upon his knee. His legs wished to part at the touch, but he kept his head well enough to sit primly through to the last verses, whereupon he chose the happier ending to the song, in which the singer returned wearily from the western lands to find the lamp still burning outside the forge. 

"Prettily done," Oin said, and he sat for a time, humming the tune to himself, until he seemed steady enough, or seemly enough, to rise and depart.

On his heels came Bifur, who made the respectful sign for 'bearer' as he bowed. 

"What can I do for you?" Dori asked. 

Bifur held his bow, looking up at Dori beseechingly. "Wouldst thou grant me a strand of thy hair?"

Dori was entirely too old to blush like an unpolished youth over such a gentle request, but it was so handsomely said in the old tongue that he grew a little flustered nonetheless.

"Well," he replied, "I don't see why not."

He carefully unfastened one of his braids, and when a lock hung loose, Bifur straightened and approached him. Dori held still as Bifur stroked his hair as if he were appraising a necklace, and then as Bifur's nose dipped subtly towards the crook of his neck. A faint, rough hum made Dori break out in gooseflesh.

"This will only—" Bifur said, the last word or words lost to Dori's rather rusty memory of obscure Khuzdul verbs.

Dori frowned, and upon seeing his lack of understanding, Bifur touched Dori's eyebrows with thumb and forefinger, sweeping down in a motion that urged him to close his eyes. Bifur's hands smelled pleasantly of woodsmoke with a persuasive hint of rutty sweat.

'To make a moment's hurt'—the word came back to him as Bifur grasped one strand of his hair and plucked it out by the root. Dori jumped at the sudden, tiny sting, and Bifur steadied him, holding him close with a gallant hand upon the small of his back.

"I thank thee," Bifur said, and he held the embrace for a time just on the far edge of seemliness before stepping back and examining the silver strand in his hand with his odd, crooked smile. "I could make a mithril coat for a wooden soldier."

Last came Balin, announced several minutes after Bifur had left with his prize.

"Balin, son of Fundin, requests an audience at your leisure."

Dori was in the process of splashing cold water on his face.

"Just a moment!" he cried, drying off with his handkerchief before fixing his loose braid. He patted down his hair and straightened his robes. Only then did he sit down on the ledge and, checking his hair once again, call out, "All right, send him in."

Despite his best efforts, he was still rather askant when Balin entered the cave. His temperature had been climbing steadily throughout his suitors' visits, and now his stomach was almost painfully tight and his sex wakeful. He was not accustomed to the peak of his heats coming on so quickly; he strongly suspected he would be burning in two days, or perhaps even tomorrow, and he wondered if this was the oddity of a late-life heat or the effect of having five hobs teasing him with their scent in turn.

"You're looking well," Balin said, approaching with a little basket filled to the brim tucked under his arm. He sat down beside Dori, a respectable distance away. His eyes darkened noticeably nonetheless, and he looked all about the cavern in interest, his nose twitching surreptitiously.

"You aren't supposed to bring gifts," Dori pointed out, looking at the berries. "I'm surprised Thorin let you in with those."

"Thorin may have been distracted," Balin said, giving him a meaningful look that seemed to say they were both above gossip, but that they would certainly have something to talk about if they were not. "Anyhow, these are mine. Although you are very welcome to take some if you'd like."

Dori seized one plump red berry and popped it into his mouth, aware of Balin watching him closely. He was poised to ask him what he could do for him, but Balin surprised him with a rather wistful smile.

"Do you still serve those wonderful cherry tarts at The Three Roses?"

Dori blinked in surprise. "Yes, we do. Although I expect it will be apple pudding season by the time I return." He shook his head. "Ketil had better not be tampering with the menu while I'm away."

"Do you miss it?" Balin asked.

"I do," Dori said. It was not simply that he worried he would come home to find that Ketil had started selling nothing but elvish cuisine, or that the business had been sunk entirely. Despite the fact that running for his life was slightly less tiring than running a restaurant, he missed his hot and cramped little kitchen, and his pretty front of house, and even a few of his more tolerable customers.

"I've been thinking," Balin said, "about how nice it would be to have one of those cherry tarts with a glass of wine and a serving of that lovely eel pie your cook does."

"Flatterer," Dori said, although he was sorely missing Ketil's pastries as well.

"Nothing of the sort," Balin said. "It's the hazard of travelling at my age. Adventure ceases to fill the belly once your hair turns white."

"Or silver," Dori said.

Balin shook his head. "You're still a kit, my lad."

Dori clucked his tongue in embarrassment and took another berry. It felt as though years had passed since they had set out on their journey, and moreover, as though his last heat had happened a lifetime ago. 

"It's a funny old thing, time," he said eventually. It was not his wisest observation, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

Balin seemed to take his meaning. "Familiar roads always pass more quickly than strange ones."

"This is a very strange road," Dori said.

"It is," Balin said. For a instant, it seemed he meant to leave it there, but then he added: "But perhaps it won't prove an entirely foolhardy one."

"It's possible," Dori said cautiously.

"It's possible," Balin agreed, pushing the basket forward and gesturing for him to take all he wanted.

Dori ate another berry. "I'll make sure you get a good table the next time you're in."

Balin smiled broadly. "Will you be joining me?"

The berry's pip very nearly went down the wrong way, but Dori set it straight with a hard swallow. "I expect," he said, uncertain if he was being teased, "that I'll be very busy when I first get home."

"I've been tempted to ask before," Balin said, quite to Dori's surprise. "I would see you bustling about seeing to everyone, and I would think, 'There is a fellow who needs to sit down and put his feet up.'"

"Stop it," Dori said, going red in the face. He cleared his throat and fidgeted with his shirtsleeves.

"All right," Balin said equably. "I won't waste my petition, then. Would I have better luck asking for the recipe for that eel pie?"

"I hope you won't try," Dori said quickly, "because I would have to refuse." 

He hoped he did not have to add that this would be a pity.

"Trade secret?" Balin asked.

Dori was tempted to nod, but he confided, crossly: "My cook won't tell me."

Balin let out a merry laugh. "Then I will have to ask for a kiss."

"Well," said Dori, willing the red in his cheeks to retreat. It would not, particularly when it occurred to him to wonder if Balin was as nice a kisser as Dwalin was. "I suppose I could agree to that."

He was poised to find out, leaning forward with his lips slightly pursed, when he was halted by a single word.

"Where?"

Dori blinked in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

Balin nudged closer to him, laying a hand atop Dori's. "We have established the _what_ , but I'm quite open to negotiation on the _where_."

Understanding dawned, and Dori drew back with his very best scandalized expression. "Why, Mr. Balin!" he cried, just softly enough to keep from alerting Thorin.

Balin did not seem to buy the expression's authenticity. He merely smiled. "If you're kind enough to let me kiss you, it's only fair that you set the terms."

It sounded very sensible, the way Balin put it. Dori fidgeted, his shirt rubbing distractingly against his nipples and the line of his trousers askew. A kiss on the neck would be very nice, he thought. How long had it been since someone had nibbled there? Yet he was very tempted to ask for much more. 

Balin's voice lowered confidingly. "If I were looking as flushed as you, I know where I'd like a kiss."

In truth, Balin did look as flushed as him. There was no hint of embarrassment in his features, but a hearty pink had suffused his cheeks. His eyes were very dark and sharp despite a touch of amusement. 

Dori chewed his lip and glanced about in indecision. Then, feeling wonderfully dizzy, he got to his feet and retrieved one of his clay jugs, which he carried briskly out of the cave. 

"Is everything all right?" Thorin asked when he saw him. His eyes searched Dori's face, and he seemed to restrain himself from taking a step forward.

"I could use a bit more water," Dori said, wondering at his own pluck to make an outright demand of a king. "Would you mind terribly...?"

Thorin took the jug readily enough but peered suspiciously past him into the cave.

"I'm quite capable of turning away any unexpected visitors!" Balin called out from the back of the vestibule.

Thorin hesitated, his eyes narrowing uncertainly.

Balin made a chiding sound. "Oh honestly, Thorin, we're only exchanging recipes."

Dori was undecided on whether to be insulted or relieved at how chastened Thorin looked. It got the job done, however; Thorin set off for the river, and Dori hastened back inside. He returned to the ledge and sat down heavily. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he began unfastening his trousers. 

The sight of Balin lowering himself so readily to his knees made his heartbeat quicken. Balin carefully lifted the hem of Dori's shirt, seemingly with great care not to take liberties with his hands. Caresses, after all, had not been granted. 

"Lovely," Balin declared softly, and then he delivered his kiss.

The first brush of a firm-bristled beard against his sex made Dori gasp aloud. Balin's mouth pressed hot and wet to his belly, and then a little below, never quite lifting from his skin as if to honour the letter of the law and bestow only one kiss. 

A little lower, a little lower, and then...

Dori's eyes pressed shut as Balin's lips enveloped his sex. He had been maddeningly half-hard for what felt like an age, and now the fire surged in him. His hips gave a desperate roll, and he clapped one hand over his own mouth as the other grasped at Balin's shoulder.

Balin sucked him slowly, his tongue sliding over every inch of Dori's sex. It was still too much. Dori was on the edge in mere seconds, his sex throbbing as he relived the memory of Bofur's head against his knee, and Dwalin's mouth upon his own. Oin's hand on his leg. Bifur's embrace. His fingers curled into Balin's collar, and he let out a soft cry into his hand as his whole body seized up and shivered.

Pleasure coursed through him with all the force of a hammer-fall. His breath left him in a hard rush, and when he inhaled, Balin's scent almost overcame him: hot and heavy, and somehow sharp like the air before a thunderstorm. The lips around him grew softer, teasing him through his aftershocks. Balin then withdrew just far enough to nudge his nose into the juncture of Dori's thighs and breathe in rapturously.

Balin's tongue flickered twice, stealing a taste of the wetness that had trickled down. Then, as politely as one pleased, he tucked Dori's sex away and fixed his clothes for him.

Dori stared at him in stunned silence for several moments. He belatedly remembered to let go of Balin's shirt. He swallowed hard and then, feeling that the smug look on Balin's face needed to be addressed, said: "If you were really so clever, you wouldn't always be tardy. I might have refused some of the rest if you didn't always turn up last."

To his surprise, Balin winked at him unrepentantly. 

"And ruin all the fun you're having?" he asked, patting Dori's thigh. "My dear lad, I wouldn't dream of it."


	8. Chapter 8

In hindsight, Bilbo ought to have realised that madness was poised to erupt when Gandalf wisely abandoned the company. 

"An old friend lives not far from here," Gandalf said to him mid-morning when the camp was abuzz with activity. "I think I will see if he's amenable to guests."

"That's wonderful," Bilbo murmured vaguely, images of provisions and beds and perhaps even indoor plumbing wisping through his head. 

The larger share of his attention, however, had been captured by the scene at the entrance to the cave. He had watched with interest both scholarly and prurient the day before as Dori's suitors had gone in one by one to request their boons. Bilbo had not been made privy to the results, but he thought all five (five, for goodness' sake—the thought still shook him) had looked pleased with themselves afterwards. There had been no courting activity since, and all were engaged in the industry of hunting and gathering, the smoking of fish and the carving of tools.

Yet Thorin still stood guard outside the cave, tending to his weapons. And now he was taking off his shirt.

It was in fact proving to be a very hot morning. The afternoon was going to be dreadful, and Bilbo was already putting in a respectable shift of fish-gutting in order to disappear as soon as the sun was fully overhead and find a shady spot in which to nap. Thorin was well within his rights to have pulled the laces of his shirt open until the neck gaped, and then to have drawn the shirt fully over his head to crumple at his feet. Now he was unbuttoning the top of his combinations, baring first his shoulders and then a remarkably furry chest as he let the garment fold down about his waist. 

Bilbo was distantly aware of Gandalf waiting pointedly for several moments, but it was not until the wizard set off with a muttered grumble about the distractible nature of hobbits that it occurred to him that he should have asked to go along.

He tore his gaze away from the sight of Thorin's hair spilling over his naked shoulders and glanced at Gandalf's retreating back. Twin urges pulled at him. On the one hand, Gandalf obviously had the right idea leaving the dwarves to their private business, and if the hospitality on offer ahead was even one-hundredth as generous as that offered in Rivendell, then Bilbo would be a very comfortable chap indeed. On the other hand, the road was a very dangerous place, and here he was protected by thirteen companions rather than one.

Certainly, Thorin looked very alert and capable, polishing his sword.

Thirst eventually drove Bilbo in search of a cup of water, and the notion that Thorin really should be informed of Gandalf's departure made him collect a second cup.

"Good morning," Bilbo announced when he had joined him, offering the cup and trying not to stare at the red flush creeping up Thorin's neck from his chest. It occurred to him then that it was likely not only the heat—that is to say, the midsummer sun—leaving Thorin in an over-warm state.

Thorin took the cup of water and gazed into it for a moment as if deciding whether to drink it or pour it over his head. He finally decided on the former, throwing it back and gulping it down, his throat bobbing with each hard swallow.

"Gandalf's left," Bilbo said. "He has a friend in the neighbourhood, and he's gone on ahead to see if we might be hosted when everything's...wrapped up."

Suspicion narrowed Thorin's eyes, and his hand curled around the hilt of his sword. "Not more elves."

Bilbo was quick to shake his head. "Not elves. He was very firm on that. He specifically told me to pass on the message that his friend is not an elf."

Thorin's expression maintained its scepticism, but Bilbo was quite certain he saw a small glimmer of amusement shine forth. It was worth sitting down for, at any rate, and he found then that he was not so very thirsty after all. He handed over the second cup of water and was quite satisfied to watch Thorin drink again.

* * *

Dori could hear the quiet conversation drifting in from the mouth of the cave. He shouldn't have been able to under other circumstances, but his senses always grew sharper the closer he was to his time, and the effect was that of having two hearing trumpets jammed in his ears at once. He could make out Thorin and Bilbo's words if he listened, and beyond that he could hear the sound of work in the camp. He could smell woodsmoke and cooked fish, and he fancied he could nearly taste the summer sunshine. None of this spurred him to rise; his body had won out over his mind and insisted that they were going to have a nice long lie-in to prepare for what waited ahead.

He pulled the coats over him, muffling the sound, and lay nestled in the comfortable pile. His eyes remained shut and his limbs were lax and heavy. His thoughts drifted along the road between here and home, to lost Erebor and back again. Balin's words, teasing surely, insisted upon themselves now and then: _"I would see you bustling about seeing to everyone, and I would think, 'There is a fellow who needs to sit down and put his feet up.'"_

It was true that Balin was no stranger to the restaurant. He came in perhaps ten or twelve times a year, sometimes occupying the private dining room with his brother and Thorin, but just as often taking the daily special and a cup of ale or glass of wine on his own. He never looked out of sorts while eating alone, obviously content with his own company. Not at all like Dori, who always ate in the kitchen at the end of the night as if he was supervising Ketil's allocation of the scraps and leftovers, and not as if it bothered him to sit by himself in the empty restaurant when the door had been locked and half the lights put out. 

He had called the place The Three Roses because that was Mother's name for them, him and Nori and Ori. Once, he had thought that the restaurant might be a family business, but Nori never did have the patience for honest work, and Ori was such a clever child, but he lived with his head in the clouds and was far better suited to the slow care of parchment and ink than he was the fast-paced life of large bills and the occasional kitchen fire. 

It was hard to imagine that a dwarf like Balin, a legitimate heir of the royal line and so forthright in his cleverness, carried the same manner of regrets that Dori bore. He did not seem the type to reach his silver years and look back, wondering where the time had gone, for surely he had spent it well. Charming as he was, surely he would never resist the inclination to invite a fellow to sit with him if that was what he truly wished.

Yet sometimes Dori thought there was a confused kinship shared by all of them who were old enough to remember Erebor well and young enough to have made neither businesses or marriage beds there. It seemed to him that they carried the city behind them like shadows, dragging along memories of a life they would never live. No matter what choices were made, there was always that little voice of doubt: a persistent whisper that insisted things might have been different in Erebor. Things might have been better. 

Of course, the whisper was usually senseless. Some faults were bred to the bone, and life went awry wherever it was lived. He wondered sleepily, however, if Balin knew this voice too. If he thought about what might have been and what might still be, even in one's later years. As it happened, Dori was very comfortable in his life. He would not give up his business for all the gold in Erebor, let alone one-fourteenth of it. Yet he found himself imagining what it would be like to have someone come dine with him at the restaurant when the day was done. It would not be so different, really. But perhaps it would be pleasant.

His thoughts grew hazy: wine, quiet words, a hand atop his own. _Sleep_ , his body urged him. _Stop thinking and sleep. All is well. All is safe._

* * *

Bilbo was yanked from his afternoon nap by the sounds of a fearsome quarrel. He bolted upright, groping for his sword. His hand found the hilt just as he realised that Gloin and Bombur were sitting not a few feet away from him, the former smoking his pipe and the latter chewing on a twist of grass, neither looking particularly concerned. 

With bleary eyes and a racing heart, Bilbo looked towards the source of the ruckus and found not goblins or orcs but Dwalin and Bofur punching the stuffing out of each other. 

"I can't say I miss that," Gloin said with a rueful puff of smoke. 

Bombur hummed in agreement.

Thorin leapt into the fray, breaking his men apart with a snarl. Bifur stepped in to soothe his cousin's temper, and Balin grabbed Dwalin by the collar and gave him a flick on the ear. No blood had been drawn that Bilbo could see, and neither Bofur nor Dwalin looked much the worse for wear despite the furious sound of their fight. 

From the grumbling that followed, Bilbo gathered that Bofur felt Dwalin had deliberately kicked dirt on the grouse he was cooking for Dori, and Dwalin in turn felt that Bofur was a pigtailed twit. Neither accusation seemed fair, as Bilbo did not think that Dwalin had an underhanded bone in his body, and Bofur had in fact been sporting a rather smart-looking bobtail ever since his audience with Dori.

"No one's actually going to be hurt, are they?" Bilbo asked Bombur worriedly. 

Bombur shook his head. "They're only being silly."

 _'Silly,'_ Bilbo thought as he watched Dwalin crack his knuckles and Bofur puff out his chest. Oin was pacing, and Bifur's gaze was unusually sharp. 

"Of course," he said politely, looking next to Thorin, whose glower seemed to brook no further scrapping. He yawned into his hand but supposed, regretfully, that it might be best to stay awake.

* * *

Dori was thirsty, but water gave him no satisfaction. He was ravenous, but he had no appetite for the offerings of fowl and fish left for him in the vestibule. The urge to sleep had left him and a skin-itching restlessness had taken its place. He paced the confines of the cavern, sweat prickling at his palms and his breast. 

Under other circumstances, this would be the stage at which he would make certain all the latches were turned and the windows shuttered before taking his jilly's helper out of its lockbox. Then, with his oldest sheets laid down, he would work the smooth stone carving into himself from tapered tip to the deliciously thick knot, stroking himself off over and over until his fever broke. 

He'd had to dispose of the lovely thing, to his regret. He had not been able to bear the thought of someone finding it if something were to happen to him on this foolhardy journey. The prospect of being dead was bad enough, but not as bad as the image of his mother, or worse, Nori and Ori, sorting through his belongings and finding _that_.

Dori was well-versed in how to manage his heats alone. He had no shyness about seeing to his own needs, and he had come to know intimately what his body wanted and when. Dealing with suitors, sharing this private state, that was something else entirely. 

Was it time yet? Ought he call out for them? Dori dithered, uncertain and not at all liking the feeling. He paused in his pacing, breathing in deeply and trying to listen to his instincts. His blood thrummed and his belly tightened. His tongue traced his dry lips, and he found himself fiddling with his beard in irritation.

 _Not yet_ , his body said quite clearly. _Let them wait. Let them come hungry_. The sensible voice in his head followed up, pointing out that he ought to stow his clothes safely away and wash himself and tidy the cavern while he still could, because when five hobs came to pay their final court, there would be no more chance for niceties.

* * *

The day only grew stranger from there. 

Bilbo could not smell whatever it was on the air that made the others sniff searchingly throughout the afternoon, their faces ruddy and their eyes bright, but he could certainly feel the expectant tension. No more punches were thrown, but the suitors kept their distance from each other, pacing in an agitated manner and occasionally pausing to pass water (with relative discretion, at least) around the edges of the camp.

"Would you like to sit down?" Bilbo asked, concerned but also a little testy when Bofur passed by him for the sixth time. All this back and forth was making him dizzy.

"Hm?" Bofur hummed distractedly, his gaze settling on Bilbo for barely an instant before it flitted back to the cave. He waved his hand in vague dismissal. "S'fine. You all right, then?"

Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, but Bofur had already set off again, tugging at his collar.

The ones who were not courting were hardly any better. Fili and Kili had been ordered by their uncle to keep out of trouble by hauling skins of water and fallen logs into the camp. They were bearing up admirably under the labour and the sun, marching in from the river or the woods with vigorous steps and longing expressions. Bilbo could not help but wonder if Thorin felt the need to keep himself out of trouble as well, for he had borrowed an axe and was now fervently chopping wood in front of the cave, flushed and sweaty and still distractingly shirtless.

Bilbo stole several admiring glances at the powerful muscles straining in Thorin's arms. Some sort of wholesome conversation might have served as a diversion, but Bombur was busy at the cook-fire, and Nori and Gloin were busy making book. The fact that there was a lack of disinterested parties to bet did not seem to deter them, and as Bilbo half-listened, they argued out the odds on who might enter the cave first (which left Bilbo wondering first whether that was a euphemism and then if it really made any difference if it was), and on whether Dori was going to fall pregnant, and on whether there might be nuptials in the planning by the time they reached Erebor.

"Our mam is never going to let him hear the end of it," Nori said, sounding gleeful at the prospect.

Bilbo looked finally to Ori in desperation, but he was hunched over with his knitting needles. He had unravelled the bottom section of his cardigan and was turning the wool into what looked to be a very tiny sock.

With nothing more respectable to hold his attention, Bilbo's gaze slid irresistibly back to Thorin. He watched the entire process from beginning to end on the grounds that chopping firewood was a useful skill to observe. Thorin bent over, standing a small log on its end. His trousers were not particularly close-fitted, but the position nonetheless strained the material handsomely. Thorin then straightened, raising the axe over his head and then bringing it down swiftly in a graceful arc. A sharp crack rang out as the log was split neatly in two.

Perhaps a little ramble was in order, Bilbo thought. He ought to stretch his legs. Find a secluded spot. Enjoy a moment alone. 

As soon as the inclination came to him, however, he spotted Oin opening his placket and heading determinedly for a large tree that had of late taken over for the privies. He averted his eyes and sighed wearily. He really ought to have gone with Gandalf.

* * *

No, no, no, Dori thought—this wasn't right at all. 

He had taken off all his clothes and left them neatly folded up in the vestibule so that nothing would be torn or stained in what was to follow. He was burning hot nonetheless, and he had bathed again as much to cool himself as to stay clean. Now he stood examining the twilight chamber with a persistent niggle of dissatisfaction. 

This simply wouldn't do. The chamber was far too big and too warm besides. Light shone down from the vestibule, hurting his eyes where before he had strained to see. The sight of the cavern's entrance unnerved him, leaving him feeling exposed even when he knew logically that the twilight chamber could not be properly seen from the camp, and that no one but his brothers and his companions were outside. His feet scuffed at the ground below as if they might dig down into the earth.

Oh.

It occurred to him to venture back into the darkest cavern, down to where the cave came to its natural end. The tension in his chest eased immediately. The cavern was lovely and cool, and cosy in its dimensions. His eyes adjusted quickly to the blackness, and his fingertips trailed along the cold, wet walls in pleasure. Yes, this was much better.

Spurred to sudden action, he climbed back up into the twilight chamber. He felt an exhilarating thrill in his belly as he gathered up great armfuls of moss from the floor and carried it back to his new nest. _Almost_ , that little voice whispered in excitement. _Almost there._

* * *

Finally, with evening came quiet. 

Bilbo sat close to the fire as the heat of the day faded away, and he ate his fish stew slowly. The quiet was not entirely reassuring. Dori's five suitors were sitting in a rough semi-circle in front of the cave. None of them spoke, and they did not meet each other's eyes. Each of them seemed lost in thought, staring down at the ground or else pressing shut their eyes as if waiting for some subtle signal.

The rest of the dwarves were likewise silent, even Nori's mirth respectfully stifled for the moment. They ate, or they smoked, or they finished up craftwork while the light still lingered. And, like Bilbo, they watched.

At last, Dwalin stood up. He marched to the threshold of the cave, where he cast a questioning look in Thorin's direction. Thorin, who to Bilbo's regret had recovered his shirt, simply shrugged his shoulders. Dwalin glowered at him and then, drawing a deep breath, charged ahead into the cave.

The silence lasted for several seconds more. The other suitors leaned forward anxiously, and Bilbo found himself holding his breath. Then a faint scuffling sound broke out, and a moment later Dwalin came flying out of the cave. Bifur and Bofur scrambled out of the way as Dwalin landed hard, skidding face-first in the grass

Bilbo stared in horror, but Dwalin only looked sheepish as he picked himself up and brushed the dirt off his shirt.

"He's still tidying up," Dwalin said.

"I would give it a few minutes," Thorin added, sounding amused. 

The suitors settled in to wait once more. This time their heads were cocked subtly, each of them tilting an ear towards the cave. Bofur was twisting his hat in his hands, and Bifur was swaying slightly from side to side. Oin's fingertips tapped impatiently in the dirt, and Dwalin was tugging at his beard. Even Balin, who had seemed calmer than most, was now staring fixedly into the darkness of the cave.

Dwalin waited until the sun had touched the horizon before standing up again. This time he paused to steel himself. His shoulders tightened visibly and his head dipped in a determined nod before he carefully stepped inside. 

A moment passed, and then another, with no reappearance from Dwalin. One more second passed and then, as if on cue, the others all leapt to their feet with great haste and raced in after him.


	9. Chapter 9

The difference between _soon_ and _now_ was all too evident by the time footsteps returned to the mouth of the cave. 

Dori was panting as he paced in his cavern. His heartbeat was pounding like a war drum and his blood burned like forge-fire in his veins. He couldn't...he couldn't think, or at least not clearly. It seemed to him that he was drunk or dreaming, a wonderful and frightening feeling that robbed him of any sense but hunger.

Scent preceded sight and touch, racing to him as the footsteps neared. It hit him forcefully, the savoury musk of desperate rut, and he cried out softly and almost came on the spot. His belly contracted near-painfully and a rush of wetness dripped down his thigh. His tongue swiped across his lip. Oh, he could almost _taste_ them...

The footsteps hastened, echoing, seeming to approach from all sides. Dori reached out to the blur of motion in the darkness, his hand closing around a fistful of clothing. He pulled with a demanding moan and a large body slammed into his own. So great was his relief that his legs momentarily failed him. He went to his knees, dragging his suitor down with him. 

Even in the midst of his fever, he had no doubt that it was Dwalin who held him. Who else could be so broad beneath his hands, and oh yes, he knew that kiss when it came, although this time it had teeth to it. Dori threw his arms around Dwalin's neck and pushed against him shamelessly, greedy for more as the sound of other footsteps rang out in promise.

Sound swam around him, the hurried patter growing disjointed and muffled as boots were kicked off and clothing hurriedly shed before stocking feet landed in the moss. He was surrounded. Their hands were upon him, too many to count. Someone grasped at his chest, squeezing the soft flesh and rubbing rough palms over his nipples. Blind groping found his hair, his shoulder, his feet. Someone mouthed at his neck and pushed a cloth-covered cock-stand against his backside. Bold fingers darted between his thighs, sliding over his entrance and teasing inside for an instant before they withdrew.

He could hear their quick breathing and soft, wicked whispers.

_"...wet as springtime..."_

_"...eager jilly..."_

_"...let me, let me..."_

Dori did not mean to stint the others, but his patience had left him and he had a suitor already in hand. He tore at Dwalin's clothing, first with his fingers and then with his teeth when shirt and trousers did not give way quickly enough. Only the length and heft of Dwalin's sex in his hands was enough to distract him from his fervour. It was big, far bigger than even Dori's lovely lost helper. Unlike the cold moonstone, however, this was hot to the touch and yielded when he softly squeezed it, and where his toy had ended with a flared base beneath its permanent knot, there was the unfamiliar but fascinating pleasure of two heavy plums in their purse. 

"Don't tease," Dwalin growled wretchedly, his mouth still dragging lightly across Dori's as though he could not draw away. "I cannae bear it."

Speech was beyond the capability of Dori's tongue, but he had sense enough to tug insistently at Dwalin's shoulders, and his meaning was taken. Dwalin's hands clamped onto his hips and flipped him over roughly. Dori caught himself, set on hands and knees with his back arching wantonly. The others loomed over him, the heat of their bodies and the strength of their scents surrounding him like soft furs and sun-warmed silk. 

Someone swooped down and stole a sweet kiss from his lips. It might as well have been a firefly, warm and brief as it was, and by the time Dori had the wits to chase after it, all he could do was gasp. Dwalin had seized him firmly by the thigh and was pushing inside him, smoothly but without delay. 

The thought that Dwalin might be too big—that the stretch might be more pinch than pleasure—flew away half-formed the moment it was summoned. He opened with ease and a lewd, slick sound that inspired a moan from someone to his left. His head lolled forward and his fingers curled into the moss as he took it all in, right to the thick root of it where Dwalin pressed flush against him. 

He touched himself, shivered at the sensitivity of his own skin, and braced himself instead. 'Go on,' he meant to say, but all that came out was a happy squeak as Dwalin began to move in earnest. The first few thrusts were long and measured, pulling back almost entirely before opening him up again and nudging something deep inside him. Quicker then, and harder. 

Dori warbled with a volume that shocked himself as he was thoroughly tupped. He was driven forward and dragged back, Dwalin's plums smacking him hard with every thrust and his hands like iron bands around Dori's hips. Someone steadied his shoulders for him, and heated murmurs were exchanged.

_"...likes it rough, doesn't he...."_

_"...look at him bounce..."_

_"...now that's a sturdy jilly..."_

Dwalin's rough breathing turned to snarls. The pounding grew until Dori was throbbing from belly to thigh and crying out on the beat. Suddenly, the rhythm faltered and Dori was yanked back by his hips. Then, there it was...the swiftly building pressure of Dwalin's knot swelling inside him.

He could not draw breath. His next cry lodged in his throat, and his lips parted mutely. The sensation seemed impossible. He swayed, teetering on some precipice between ignorance and knowledge, and then he felt the wet rush of seed inside him and his body dismissed his mind and gave him a spending from that and that alone.

The mouth of his opening grasped and eased in turn, and Dwalin's sex pulsed inside him over and over again. He could not say how long it lasted, too dizzy to mark the time and lost to his pleasure. Dwalin lay sprawled over his back, heavy and warm, his low and rumbling moans punctuated by the twitching of his hips. 

Someone tugged gently at his beard. His chin tilted up. Hot, damp skin brushed against his lips. He opened his mouth for the offered sex gladly, clumsily taking a taste. Someone else crowded in for a try. Dori rocked back and forth subtly as a hand stroked his chest and another plucked at his nipple and another softly caressed his sex. Heavy breathing was not the only sound that echoed in the cavern, with the soft smack of self-pleasure following closely.

The knot seemed slow to ease, but eventually Dwalin pulled out of him with a grunt. Dori shivered hard as he felt a plentiful mess of seed dribble from him. 

"There we go," Dwalin murmured, sounding as winded as he did pleased, and his thick fingers dragged along Dori's thigh, pushing some of the seed back inside him. 

With a satisfied hum, Dwalin then withdrew, settling himself against the cavern wall and leaving Dori in the middle of four impatient contenders.

There was no chance to pause for breath. The others closed in around him, an indistinguishable mass of strong hands and hot mouths. Dori squirmed, trying to push himself against all of them at once. He did not care who had him next, only that it happened as soon as possible. His knees spread wider apart and his hips tilted back demandingly. He was pulled in two directions at once, roughly enough that he snapped his displeasure and kicked. The tugging immediately ceased, replaced by two fierce growls behind him and the sound of a shove and a punch.

"Mind thyself, varlet!"

"I was there first!"

Dori turned over onto his back, watching with dreamy surprise as Oin and Bifur scrapped. An impatient sound rumbled in his chest at the delay. There was flattery in being fought over, but he was in no mood to wait. Happily, he was not left bereft for long. Bofur took advantage of the pair's distraction, stealing past them and slipping on top of Dori with a grin that flashed brightly in the darkness. 

"Hullo," Bofur whispered, sounding very pleased with himself. 

Oin shouted in protest when he noticed the usurping, and Bifur groaned, but all Dori knew was _yes_ and _now_ and _hurry up_. He wrapped his arms tightly around Bofur's neck, and his legs desperately sought purchase. Bofur's sex rubbed against his own, sliding slickly in the wet mess that seemed to have got everywhere. Another fumble of their hips brought a blunt nudge against his entrance, nearly there...

Dori's knees fixed to Bofur's hips and _pulled_. 

Bofur breathed out rapturously as he slid inside. "Oh, the feel of you..."

The scent that settled over Dori was warm and thick, mellower than that of the others, and Dori's tongue darted out for an instant as if he might lap it out of the air like dripping honey. It mingled deliciously with his own salt-sweat as they moved together, and happy sounds spilled from Dori's mouth as his sex, trapped between them, was pressed and stroked with every slow thrust. He pushed up, trying to get Bofur even deeper inside him, his toes curling and his back arching. 

"Harder?" Bofur asked, his voice weighed down with a moan.

"If you please," Dori said, or meant to say, as it seemed to his ears that only the last word was even half-recognisable.

He was indulged nonetheless. Bofur steadied himself above him and then drove into him with such vigour that Dori's breathing momentarily stopped. His teeth chattered and his head lolled, and he clung on for dear life and love as he was rocked to rough pleasure.

"Oh, you're lovely, Mr. Dori," Bofur whispered between quick breaths. "All hot and wet and squidgy..."

Dori caught hold of his breath once more, and a moan rose to a shout as he was thoroughly rattled. Someone stroked his brow and unbound his hair, loosing the locks from their braids and bob and easing the heaviness in his head. Fingers slipped between his parted lips, thick and tasting of salt, and he sucked them noisily, gurgling around them as the pace of Bofur's hips rubbed him to a frenzy.

He came just as hard as he had mere moments—minutes, hours?—before. Diamonds sparkled before his eyes as he rode over his peak, and he could feel himself twitch and tighten around Bofur's sex. Bofur cried out in surprise above him, and then cursed, fumbled, and only just managed to push in deep before his knot could swell. The sensation of it entering made Dori draw a sharp breath, and then his eyes squeezed shut in bliss as it grew inside him. 

"Ah, that's fine, that's lovely..." Bofur babbled, his arms trembling as he spent.

Dori pulled clumsily at him, letting him lay down his weight. The movement made Bofur's knot shift inside him, exerting pressure on some obscure part of him as it pulsed. The sensation was strange but good, making Dori wiggle into it. Bofur moaned deeply and shook again, burying his face against Dori's shoulder as he filled him up.

That hungry urge inside of Dori eased just a little, letting him lie satisfied until Bofur finally softened. To his well-insulated shock, he felt himself nearly _purr_ as Bofur's generous spending dribbled from him. Someone petted his ears and stroked his beard. Someone else set a firm hand on his ankle as if calling bags-I on him. 

"Thanks," Bofur said breathlessly and then paused to kiss him very nicely. "That was grand."

Dori lowered his legs shakily as Bofur withdrew. He ran a hand over his sweat-sheened brow and loose hair, and he drew a strong breath. His belly throbbed, his appetite rekindling. They were not done here, not by a long shot. He licked his lips and cleared his throat, summoning all his concentration to speak.

"Who's next?"


	10. Chapter 10

Bilbo had assumed (for the love of spring apples, when would he stop assuming?) that the purpose of the cave was for privacy and discretion. This had seemed a sensible conclusion when Dori had first retreated from the camp, for while Bilbo was not at all sold on the darkness and dankness of underground caverns, he was a hobbit, and hobbits much preferred the cosy shelter of a burrowed home to the scattered, toothy cottages and towers of men.  
  
What Bilbo had neglected to anticipate was this: caves echoed.  
  
This particular cave seemed more echo-y than most. It was, in fact, excessively echo-y. To wit, not only could Bilbo hear Dori's noisy cries of pleasure as he was enthusiastically tupped, but Bilbo was confident he could identify exactly who was doing the tupping and quite possibly even in which position.   
  
Bilbo tossed and turned fruitlessly under his lean-to, painfully aroused and vexed at having been made so. It seemed that half the remaining company had prepared for this eventuality, or at least were taking it in better stride. Ori and Nori had divided up the last of Ori's sealing wax to make earplugs for themselves, and they now sat beside the fire with an unruffled Bombur and Gloin, playing some sort of betting game carried out chiefly by hand gestures. They were competing for a pot of berries, but not even the chance of pudding was enough to tempt Bilbo into joining them and learning the game, for he had a ferocious cock-stand and was still a respectable enough hobbit to prefer a restricted audience for such things.  
  
Only Fili and Kili put his own suffering to shame. An insufficient amount of rope had been mustered, and so they were currently being sat on by Nori and Gloin in order to keep them on their best behaviour. Both gazed forlornly towards the cave, whimpering and occasionally giving in to a fit of thrashing that would earn them a rap on the knuckles from Bombur.  
  
"Oh...oh... _oh_..."  
  
Dori's high moaning was interspersed with the sharp smack of two bodies driving together and the lower rumble of a growl.   
  
Bilbo blushed anew, fidgeting. Oh, for five minutes alone with his hand. If daylight had not faded, he would have slipped away long ago, but the night was dark and wandering away by himself into the black woods for a wank was the silliest way a fellow might meet his end. As it was, he rubbed himself surreptitiously and thought of the ring in his pocket.   
  
Of course he had no intention of stealing into the cave, for interrupting a private orgy was the second-silliest way a fellow might meet his end. Yet he entertained the thought as the moaning grew louder, imagining the scene. Did Dori truly mean to take all five, one right after the other? Were the rest queued up for him? Were they stroking themselves in anticipation as they waited? He could not quite conceive of his companions in such a state, but his mind conjured half-anonymous glimmers of naked skin and fur and muscles that did nothing to ease Bilbo's ardour.   
  
A sudden echoing warble made his mouth run dry. His gaze flew to the cave, where it fell upon Thorin. In the sliver of moonlight, Thorin was little more than a collection of shadows pacing back and forth. His powerful strides were long and restless, and now and then he paused in his steps to clench his fists or rub his eyes, and once, as Bilbo watched, his hand seemed to venture somewhere else entirely.  
  
Confound it! Never mind orcs and goblins and riddles—this was far more than a respectable hobbit could bear. Bilbo pushed himself to his feet, paused to arrange his coat over his arm to hold in front of him, and then with as much dignity as he could muster marched forward to address the stalwart chaperon.

* * *

Dori's desperation was blunted by the third time he was mounted, but his hunger ran no less deep. He embraced Bifur eagerly, winding arms and legs around him, and a breathless cry floated from his lips as he was entered once again. He tingled from his fingertips to his toes, and between his thighs all was hot and melting. Distantly, he could sense the strain in his legs—the pull and burn of muscles held taut—but he could not loosen his grasp, not when Bifur began to move, scratching that itch anew.

"Polished-jewel," Bifur crooned to him, his voice so low and rough that Dori could almost rub himself off against it. "Oh, thou art a handsome bearer..."  
  
Dori felt like a piece of tipsy cake drowned in cream, soaking up the pleasure and flattery until he was drenched. Pretty words flowed into his ear, carried on warm, heavy breaths. Some found sense where they landed and others were only noise, sweet nonsense that made him squirm and flush and shamelessly beg.  
  
"More," he pleaded, his legs scrabbling until Bifur caught hold of them. His knees nearly met his ears as he was bent double, and he let out a delighted squeak as Bifur slid in to new depths.  
  
His hips rolled to meet Bifur's thrusts, and he could not say whether he chased his next peak or if he was dragging out the last one to its very limits. Each driving push echoed through him, thrilling him, twisting him, making him quaver. Sweat dripped down his back and from his brow, and it seemed as though his eyes might be wet as well. Salt tingled on his tongue, and the air was thick with Bifur's scent as an abundance of badger-hair beard tickled Dori's nose and chin.  
  
"Lovely bearer," Bifur whispered, his breath fraying as his thrusts quickened. "Snow-melt. Let me fill thee. Let me..."  
  
"Yes," Dori moaned, dragging urgently at Bifur's shoulders. He groped for the old tongue and cried out again. " _Yes_."  
  
Unlike the others, Bifur did not falter in his rhythm as his sex knotted. He moved deep inside of Dori, his thrusts growing shallower bit by bit as he swelled, until finally the two of them were stuck fast together and barely rocking for all their push and pull. Bifur groaned, bracing himself more firmly atop Dori and straining forward as he came. The long, low sound of his crest rumbled through Dori's chest.   
  
"Oh..." Dori blinked slowly in surprise as the pressure within him only grew.   
  
Oh, he thought again, oh, but Bifur had a big one. Even after a thorough stretching from Dwalin and Bofur, Dori still found his breath stolen away as the knot filled up to full girth. He could feel the strong heartbeat-pulse of Bifur's plums as they spent their seed, and all at once his body pushed itself over another little peak and made his limbs shake hard before easing to weightlessness.   
  
No more words came, only quiet, rough sounds as Bifur curled over Dori and trembled through his long spending. The cold touch of iron against Dori's fevered brow was a strange pleasure but a lovely one, and Bifur's bright, pale gaze glittered in the dark as Dori, breathless, smiled in senseless satisfaction.

* * *

Thorin's anxious pacing paused upon Bilbo's approach. His hand went to his sword, but he did not draw it. Bilbo gave a small wave, the best signal of harmlessness he could manage while still holding his coat in front of himself, and closed the distance between them. 

From a step or two away, Thorin somehow managed to look both wretched and formidable at once. He was obviously not unaffected by the loud, lewd noises echoing from the cave. No matter the pressing nature of Bilbo's arousal, he could grasp—intellectually at least—that the urge was far worse for Thorin. Yet still Thorin guarded his men and did not let one foot stray over the threshold of the cave, held back by nothing more than his own admirable self-restraint.  
  
Bilbo swallowed nervously, rocking back on his heels with deliberate casualness. Then he cleared his throat.  
  
"It sounds like...everything's going well in there," he ventured.  
  
As if on cue, Dori let out a yowl the likes of which would have prompted Bilbo to throw a bucket of water into the garden under other circumstances. Thorin flinched at the sound, his eyes shutting for an instant and his lips parted until he recovered his wits.  
  
"What do you want, Mr. Baggins?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.  
  
Bilbo's first and most sensible inclination was to turn back around and return to his lean-to. What was he doing? Certainly, he did not mean to proposition a dwarf; certainly, he did not mean to proposition a  _king_. Yet his feet did not budge. After all, here they both were on a night just as strange as the one on which Thorin had appeared on his doorstep, and perhaps no desperate sprint would be quick enough to catch up if he once again let himself wait until morning.  
  
He squared his shoulders. "I, ah, think that depends on what you want."  
  
Thorin stared at him for a long moment, his eyes looking very dark. Then he shook himself, as if out of a reverie, and when he spoke, his voice showed the strain that the straightness of his shoulders did not.   
  
"I am not hungry, I do not need any water, and I do not intend to be relieved of my post, so you can count your good deed done and—"  
  
"Sit down," Bilbo said.  
  
Thorin blinked. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Sit down," Bilbo said again, more firmly this time. "The others are standing watch, and Fili and Kili aren't going anywhere. All this walking in circles is only going to make you feel worse."  
  
To his surprise, after a moment Thorin sank down to sit with his back to the hill. He fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable, and then hunched forward gingerly. Bilbo sat down beside him, likewise requiring a few small adjustments before he settled.  
  
"You're under no obligation to provide me company," Thorin said, his tone a little softer than it had been before. "You ought to try to sleep if you can."   
  
Bilbo refrained from reassuring Thorin that very little he said or did invited company at the best of times. He smiled instead, awkwardly.   
  
"I know," he said, "but an old hobbit remedy came to mind, and it's the sort of remedy you can't make alone."  
  
Thorin glanced at him sidelong, the question clear. Behind them, the sound of a rollicking tupping rose in pitch.  
  
"I think you'll like it," Bilbo said, his heartbeat quickening. He licked his dry lips. "It would be at home with dwarves, as it usually involves looking straight ahead, not saying a word, and pretending you aren't doing what you're really doing."  
  
Before he could lose his nerve, he draped his coat discreetly over both their laps and then reached over.  
  
"Well," he said to himself, blinking as his hand settled lightly atop a very firm bulge. It seemed that dwarves were larger than hobbits all over.

Thorin's breathing caught audibly. "Oh."

"Interested?" 

Thorin did not hesitate. "Yes."

Bilbo leaned closer to him, trying to feel the body-warmth pouring off him without arousing suspicion from any who might be watching. There were not many adventurous skills that Bilbo had been able to pride himself upon prior to leaving the Shire, but the ability to exchange a few tugs undetected outside a party (or on a particularly memorable occasion, in the middle of a very boring dinner) was one of them. From a distance, he and Thorin surely sat chastely side by side, merely sharing a makeshift blanket for warmth.  
  
He was careful to let his fingers do the work, giving no sign of movement above the wrist. Bless the simplicity of dwarven trousers: laces were far easier to open one-handed than buttons. Thorin's cock all but leapt into his hand, hot and heavy, and so thick that Bilbo soon discovered his thumb and forefinger could not meet around its girth.  
  
Thorin's hand settled on his thigh and crept up under cover of the coat. Bilbo helped him with the buttons and then let out a quiet gasp as Thorin found his way down to bare skin.   
  
If he had thought about it—and he hadn't, or at least not in such lurid detail—he would have assumed that Thorin would be rough, his hands not careless exactly, but hurried. Yet no matter how heavy Thorin's breathing had become, his touch was light and almost tentative. A single finger slid down the straining length of Bilbo's cock and then paused at the base.   
  
Thorin made a curious sound in his throat.  
  
"What?" Bilbo asked more than a touch defensively, as that was not at all the sort of sound one wanted to hear in a situation like this.   
  
"You have..." Thorin sounded utterly at a loss as he traced Bilbo's stones.  
  
"Yes," Bilbo said impatiently, when he had stopped biting his lip at the soft, teasing touch. Some other time, he might be happy enough to discuss the differences between dwarves and hobbits, but his was not a scholarly mood. "Is that a problem?"  
  
Bilbo suspected the answer was 'no' given the way Thorin proceeded to shove his entire hand into his trousers.   
  
"Secretive creatures, hobbits," Thorin mused.   
  
" _Hobbits?_ " Bilbo cried indignantly. "You dwarves are the ones who—"  
  
Yet he had no chance to finish his protestation, for Thorin demolished all of Bilbo's careful stealth by kissing him soundly on the mouth and tumbling him down into the cool grass without another word.

* * *

Oin, it seemed, was not about to cede his turn again. He was on top of Dori not a moment after Bifur withdrew, bending warm and eager over him, big as a bear and breathing crookedly. His fingers touched Dori's brow first and then pressed to his throat, and it took Dori a muddled moment to understand that Oin was taking his pulse-time.

"M'fine," Dori insisted, trying to draw Oin down. He felt wonderful, in fact. His blood coursed through him powerfully, as if he had run a great distance before throwing himself down to a welcome rest. His fever was a lovely fire, flickering hot inside of him and making his skin feel as if it glowed.   
  
He could not say if Oin heard him, but a hard, brief kiss spoke to a clean bill of health. His lips were left cool and tingling as Oin ducked his head and noisily sucked at one nipple and then the other. They were already swollen, flushed and sensitive with his heat, and the pull of Oin's mouth sent sparks flying through him. Oin's hands followed, shaping the soft flesh of Dori's breast, squeezing, and Dori distantly heard a sigh from where his spent suitors reclined.  
  
"Ought to have tried that," Bofur murmured sleepily. At a mutter from his cousin, he hummed in agreement. "They're lovely bubbies."  
  
Dori wiggled under the roughed attention until he was gathered up and turned over. He groaned as the change in position sent a fresh dribble of seed spilling from him. He got his knees under him but found his arms could no longer hold his weight. He faltered, settling down on his elbows instead, and someone—Balin, his nose attested, drawing in the burning, unsatisfied scent of a waiting hob—guided him down to gently to lay his head upon a firm thigh.  
  
Oin's grip settled on his waist and Balin's on his shoulders, and without both he might have gone skidding into the moss as Oin thrust roughly into him. He chirped and then proceeded to cry out in hitching, broken moans as Oin hammered into him hungrily. He was nearly shaken clear of his bones with the force of it, and his sex bounced with every thrust, making him roll over low waves of half-certain pleasure.  
  
The sound of their joining was utterly obscene. He was so wet now, so well-seeded, that the slick noises overwhelmed everything else, echoing sharply in the cavern. He could feel the mess sliding down his thighs, drying sticky to him in other places. He bit his lip and keened as Oin moved even harder, the wicked sounds quickening and blurring together for delirious minutes. Then Oin grabbed at Dori's thighs, yanking him closer and screwing in deep as his knot swelled, and Dori hiccoughed a _yes-oh-yes-oh-yes_ of pleasure as he was stretched and filled once more.  
  
Oin collapsed over Dori's back, blowing hard breaths and growling against his shoulder. His hands found Dori's chest again, kneading hard at him as he spent with rumbling moans and small, urgent thrusts. Dori shivered, humming in contentment as Oin shifted and pressed on top of him and Balin stroked his hair. His limbs trembled. He was so full, overflowing in tiny trickles despite the thick barrier of Oin's knot. A prim little murmur in his head insisted that he could not take any more, but a rather more smug and proud voice took in his debauched state and countered that there was more yet to have, and he knew he did not wish to stop, not when there was still pudding on his plate.  
  
Dori lay still for a time, his cheek on Balin's thigh, gathering his strength as Oin rode out his long spending. Oin's attentions grew softer as he came down from the peak of it. His hands rubbed more gently over Dori's chest, and he nuzzled Dori's shoulder. Finally, his knot eased out, and he kissed his way down Dori's back as he withdrew, pausing only to feel Dori's brow and throat again before falling back. In mere seconds, his breathing deepened into snoring.  
  
One more time, Dori thought as he stretched luxuriously. One more, one more lovely suitor, one more knot, and let the last be the sweetest. He flopped onto his back and reached up, his fingers winding firmly into the snowy white of Balin's beard. He tugged imperiously, and to his joy, Balin was upon him in an instant.


	11. Chapter 11

Kisses fell upon him like rain, cool and soft on his lips and brow and cheeks.

"Oh my," Balin murmured, his hand slipping between Dori's thighs. "Don't you look like the cat who got the cream."

His voice held a teasing lilt, but there was nothing easy about the rest of him. He was trembling slightly, tense with need, and his breathing pattered quickly against Dori's skin. His fingers were gentle as they stroked almost soothingly along Dori's throbbing sex and the wet, overheated entrance below, but his eyes squeezed shut for an instant as though with the agony of restraint.

It seemed a terribly silly thing to Dori in that moment, restraint. He had made himself a shameless glutton and still he wanted more. He wiggled invitingly against Balin's touch and ran his greedy hands all over him: the softness of Balin's belly, and the firm breadth of his back, and the taut muscles in his strong arms. His sex...oh, it was stout, heavy and hard in Dori's grip, and burning like a brand.

A little growl rumbled in Balin's throat. The sound of it was startling and wicked, at perfect odds with the smooth, handsome manners that had turned Dori's head. He very much wanted to hear it again, and he stroked Balin's sex lavishly to earn it. The lovely thing slid through his cupped hands, seeming to swell even thicker under his attentions. He explored its length, fingers circling at the base where its knot would come and then curving under the full plums beneath to take their measure.

There...another growl, warm and burry, half-hidden in the crook of Dori's neck along with a kiss. Dori melted like candle wax, and had his own desire been only a little less hot he might have delighted in teasing Balin even longer. As it was, he tugged insistently at Balin's hair and tried to snare him, but his legs would not hold. They rose in a valiant attempt, knees on either side of Balin's hips, but almost immediately began to shake with the effort. 

Dori made a deeply unhappy sound, trying to tighten his grip.

"Hush," Balin said, taking him in his arms.

The darkness tilted as Balin turned him over. The air stirred sweetly over him, cold fingers over sweat-damp skin with moss still clinging to it. He found himself settled on his side with Balin pressed up behind him. One arm was curled around Dori's middle and the other was put into service as a pillow, tucked tenderly beneath Dori's cheek.

"Is that better?" Balin asked, patting his thigh. Even though his breathing was rapid and his sex was hot iron where it pressed against Dori, he asked the question so solicitously that Dori felt his chest swell and his stomach wobble.

"Oh yes," he said, sinking into the embrace. He reached back, groping for Balin's backside, and urged him even closer with a hopeful hum. 

Balin, bless him, did not make him wait any longer. A pull, a nudge, another marvellous little growl in Dori's ear—and then he was pushing inside with a slow screw of his hips. 

Dori's soft cry rose from deep in his throat. He could hear vague sounds of interest at the edges of the cavern, where the rest of his suitors lounged and dozed. Slick as he was from their attentions, he could feel a delicious twinge as Balin opened him up again. He was going to be sore tomorrow, sore perhaps for days and days, and unlike the ache that came with travel, he would glory in it, for five was such a respectable number to win and take and leave snoring in a heap. 

"Have you any idea," Balin whispered on a rough breath, "how lovely you are like this?"

Dori had a notion of what he looked like, informed by the salty sweat dripping onto his lips and the way his hair fell in loose, messy locks over his tear-stained, fever-blotched face. The state of his thighs was positively obscene, and as Balin moved oh-so-slowly inside him, Dori found he had great difficulty opening his eyes or shutting his gasping mouth. It could not be a fetching sight, no matter how wonderful he felt to be so thoroughly debauched, and yet Balin murmured sweetly to him as if he were draped in finery and adorned with jewels. 

"Look at you..."

Balin's lips brushed over the curve of his ear. He breathed in deeply, seeming to fill himself to the brim with Dori's scent, and then he exhaled in a long sigh. Dori pushed back against him, moaning full-voiced in pleasure as he was stretched further and caressed from breast to belly. _Slow_ , it seemed, could make him shake just as hard as _frenzied_. 

"Unbuttoned..."

The careful pull of Balin's fingers drew his sex to full length again. Dori's throat tightened around a quiet sob. He was achingly sensitive, but he wanted it terribly—one more peak, even if he had to be dragged over the top. One more reckless leap, one more lovely high, one more breathless descent into safe, comforting arms.

"Undone..."

His shoulder was kissed and softly bitten. Balin's hand tightened around Dori's sex, and his hips moved harder, rocking them both back and forth in a rising rhythm. Dori sighed blissfully, rubbing his cheek against Balin's arm. 

"So very pleased with yourself..."

The words buzzed like sleepy honeybees from Balin's chest to Dori's back. He might have protested, but Balin spoke truly. He was perfectly pleased with himself, entirely pleased, wholly pleasured from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. 

"...and rightly so."

Balin's breath caught as Dori pressed a kiss to his arm. He curled even closer, his thigh atop Dori's hip, and murmured fervently against Dori's shoulder:

"My dear lad, a fellow could find his joy spoiling you."

Something fluttered fiercely in Dori's chest, like a bird struggling to take flight. He tried to quash it, holding his breath as he arched back against Balin. It was only talk, he told himself. Pretty, charming talk the likes of which Bifur had so sweetly poured into his ear. Dori would have returned the favour for all of them had he not been struck wordless with hunger. Fine, generous hobs, all of them—he would sing their praises if he could, and it would promise nothing more than one night's pleasure and fond regard for a lifetime.

Yet Balin's tongue stopped its flattery there, and there seemed to be a pause—a question—poised somewhere in the growing need of their embrace. The flutter returned, and try as he might, Dori could not make it cease its frantic motion in his heart. He reached up, fingers tentatively entwining with Balin's, and in that moment he was dizzy enough to believe that he could in fact have everything he wanted. 

"Tea?" he asked breathlessly.

Balin (oh, he thought, clever Balin) did not mistake his meaning. His fingertips circled over the head of Dori's sex as he whispered in his ear: "Anytime you wanted it."

Dori swallowed a moan, biting his lip briefly before he could gather speech again. 

"B-aths?" His tongue tripped on the word, his throat momentarily closing as he felt the pressure inside him increase, heralding the slow rise of Balin's knot. 

"I will even, ah, scrub your back," Balin promised solemnly, his own breathing hitching as his excitement grew.

Dori faltered, trembling with pleasure as he recalled the sensation of Balin's mouth upon his sex. He could not say it aloud, and blessedly, Balin did not make him.

"All the kisses you would like," Balin whispered heatedly. His lips brushed over Dori's shoulder once more. "Whenever you would like, wherever you would like them. Only let me see you with your hair down..."

The fluttering took wing, and Dori peaked with a warm, babbling cry under the encouragement of Balin's lavish strokes. It was a raw climax, stripped bare of anything soft and scraping roughly over every part of him. His body gave a violent tremor, and he clutched Balin's hand so tightly that he distantly worried he might break it. His breathing halted entirely for an instant as Balin's knot swelled to full size inside him. 

"Lovely..." Balin whispered in his ear, sounding no less undone than Dori as his spending came. 

Whatever Balin said next was lost to his own panting and to the pounding of Dori's heartbeat. The pulse that followed was strong and quick, making Dori tighten and twitch around it. He could feel himself filled up again, wet and warm, and he cried out once more in a faint, breaking voice as his fever reached its breaking point. Sweat washed afresh all over him, and his teeth began to click and chatter.

"Shhh," Balin hushed, letting Dori's sex slip from his grasp and wrapping his arm firmly around Dori's waist. "It's all right...nearly there..."

Dori, however, had no need for reassurance. He felt as though he had been plucked from the forge fire and dropped into the slake tub, quenched and cooled, hammered to a marvellous new shape. He half expected to see steam rising from his skin as he trembled again, shaken by the aftershocks of his final spending. Balin held him close nonetheless, kissing his shoulder and neck and cheek. Another lovely little growl rumbled in Dori's ear, and he sagged back into Balin's embrace with a helpless sigh.

They lay locked together for longer than Dori could grasp. The spending grew slower but did not cease entirely for a very long time. Balin rubbed his belly in patient circles and mouthed at him wherever he could reach with increasingly lazy kisses. Dori's eyelids had grown heavy as stone, and he could not lift his head. The cavern seemed to close around him, tightening its embrace, and only vaguely did he understand that the others were now moving in to join them. 

A small gasp escaped him when Balin's knot receded. Once again, a mess of seed slid down his thighs. Everything between Dori's legs seemed hot and smelted, still echoing with Balin's pulse and his own uncountable peaks. His belly was warm and settled, as if he had drunk down a cup of hot tea on a cold day without burning his mouth. 

"Here we go," Balin murmured as he turned Dori, unresisting, over onto his other side.

Dori made a small noise of contentment as he was gathered up and held to Balin's chest. He buried his nose in Balin's beard and lay limp and exhausted beneath the hand that tenderly patted his back .

"Well done," Balin said, his voice heavy with sleepiness and satisfaction. "You were a wonder...just marvellous."

Dwalin, Bofur, Bifur, and Oin all settled in around him with stifled yawns and half-snoring hums of good-night. Small negotiations ensued—what sounded like an elbow or knee to someone's ribs and then a grumble of complaint—before all lay peacefully. Someone's hand settled on his thigh and squeezed softly. Someone's fingers combed clumsily through his hair and then fell still. Dori found himself held safe by all five, burrowed in securely amongst their heavy limbs.

His lips curved into an undeniably smug smile. 

It took some wiggling and what ounce of wakefulness was left to him, but he managed to move one hand up a few precious inches from where it lay pressed to Balin's belly. For all this romance, for all this fantasy, he was a businessman at heart. He knew very well that all offers made over strong drink ought to be made again while sober, and surely, he thought with wicked new knowledge, pleasure was as intoxicating as any spirit. Vows spoken in haste, his mother had often told him, were usually repented at leisure. 

Yet he wound his fingers firmly in Balin's beard before sleep could steal away the last of his sense and pull him down into the black silence of well-deserved rest. When the morning came, perhaps they would see if those pretty promises of tea and spoiling would be kept. Until then, he had no intention of letting go.


	12. Chapter 12

Bilbo awoke the next morning to the touch of sunshine on his face and the twitter of birdsong. For a moment he squinted his eyes shut, deciding he could perhaps lie in just a little longer. He turned away from the golden glow and snuggled back into the comfortable shelter of his warm, bony pillow—

His eyes flew open.

Slowly, very slowly, he lifted his head from Thorin's shoulder and wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth. He took brief stock of himself: mussed and chapped, and slightly tangled in his own clothes. 

He cleared his throat. "Er, good morning."

"Good morning," Thorin replied, sounding amused. His voice was slightly scratchy with sleeplessness, and his eyes were very red. He held his sword cradled across his knees, sheathed. One arm was still curled around Bilbo's waist.

The memories of last night lingered in the faint ache of Bilbo's muscles and the taste on his tongue. His cheeks grew hot as he spotted his own handiwork in the form of a red passion-mark just below the collar of Thorin's shirt. Right, he thought. Definitely not a dream, then.

"Did you, ah, get any sleep?" Bilbo finally managed to ask. 

"Of course not," Thorin said indignantly. His hand tapped the grip of his sword in emphasis, and he jerked his chin towards the cave.

Bilbo realised now what had awoken him. There were new sounds coming forth from the cave, small shuffling and scuffling noises echoing in the darkness. He tensed, braced for the possibility of a second round, but in a moment the would-be suitors began staggering out one a time, blinking in the sunlight before heading off towards the river.

He scooted back, putting a respectable distance between himself and Thorin, but none of the first four glassy-eyed bucks even glanced his way. They swaggered and stumbled by turn, appearing as though they had just been let loose from a sack containing a wild cat and a windstorm. None of them looked to have had great luck with dressing, for Bifur was barefoot, and Bofur had his shirt on backwards, and Dwalin and Oin seemed to have accidentally swapped trousers.

Only Balin, the last to leave, took notice of Bilbo and Thorin. He was the most respectable looking of the bunch, but his shock of white hair was flattened on one side and had been tousled into riotous curls on the other, and his beard was a shapeless cloud. The look he bestowed upon Bilbo was benevolent, yet knowing enough that Bilbo's cheeks immediately flushed anew.

"You can stand down, Thorin. I'll make certain Dori has some water and breakfast."

Thorin hesitated. A broad yawn seized him, and he promptly looked sheepish.

"You were a fine chaperon," Balin assured him, and then added drily, "and Mr. Baggins too, I'm sure."

Bilbo buried his face in his hands as Balin left them with an unmistakable strut in his step and whistling for good measure. Thorin patted him consolingly on the shoulder.

"You should," Bilbo muttered into his palms. "Sleep, I mean. I didn't mean to drift off."

He meant, of course, that he had not meant to drift off with his face buried in the crook of Thorin's neck. The last thing he remembered was the cave finally falling to the relative silence of grinding snores, and then leaning into the surprisingly cosy circle of Thorin's arms as their own heavy breathing slowly quieted in the wake of their pleasure.

"You had no call to stay up," Thorin said, sounding amused once more. He looked Bilbo over closely, something warm kindling in his eyes. 

Bilbo wished very much to kiss him again, but he was not certain if the discretion of dwarves applied to kissing in broad daylight. He settled instead for daringly poking Thorin in the side. 

"Get some sleep," he said. 

Thorin blinked in surprise, looking down at where Bilbo's finger prodded his middle. Then, to Bilbo's delight, he inclined his head gracefully.

"I will," Thorin said. "I trust you will find your own breakfast?"

Bilbo refrained from rolling his eyes. "You might not think much of the skills of hobbits, but if we're champions at anything it is finding our next meal."

The corners of Thorin's eyes crinkled. He put his hand upon Bilbo's cheek and kissed him—only briefly, the faintest brush of lips and beard—before rising smoothly to his feet. Bilbo stared after him, eyes fixed upon the half-undone laces of Thorin's trousers. The morning sun suddenly felt unbearably hot.

He hurriedly straightened his own clothing, fighting the urge to break into helpless laughter. Several minutes were spent hunting for a stray button in the grass and then, rather proudly, he managed to get the fire built back up and started by the time the five bucks returned from bathing in the river. 

Gloin, Bombur, Nori, and Ori had stirred by then and came to join him in the middle of the camp. Fili and Kili still slept, stretched out face-down in the dirt, having exhausted themselves with their thrashing sometime in the middle of the night. The five bucks, now slightly more capably dressed and with wet hair and beards wrung out, assembled a generous spread of their provisions and set it just inside the mouth of the cave before descending upon the line of dried fish like a pack of hounds.

One fish flew through the air, tossed his way by Bofur, and Bilbo caught it with a grateful smile. Bofur took two for himself and sat down beside him. Balin bustled by, carrying a large pot full of water, which he winched up over the fire. All seemed pleasantly quiet, like the morning after a party when everyone was in tolerable spirits but nursing heavy heads from too much ale.

From time to time, the bucks would glance towards the cave where their breakfast offering still sat. Bilbo strategically used those opportunities to look back at where Thorin was napping, curled up on his side in the shade beneath a lean-to. His arms were crossed over his chest as he slept, and perhaps it was only the novelty of daylight, but it seemed to Bilbo that his expression was uncharacteristically peaceful.

A general stir broke out when Balin hoisted the pot off the fire. Bilbo had assumed the boiling water was intended for a proper washing-up, and had in fact hoped to get a share of it. The sudden lifting of heads and sharpening of gazes all around him put him on alert, however, and he watched with just as much interest as Balin proceeded to carry his makeshift kettle back to the cave, with a cup full of elderflower sprigs dangling from one finger.

The sound of everyone holding their breath at once was startlingly audible. Bilbo leaned forward quite despite himself, waiting to see what the reaction would be. A moment passed without Balin being thrown out on his ear, and then another. Then footsteps echoed in the cave and Bilbo let out a soft, genuine cry of disappointment at Balin's reappearance, as if he were the overwrought audience of a winter pantomime. He clapped a hand over his mouth in embarrassment, but it turned out that he was not alone in his manners. Dwalin laughed shortly at his brother's misfortune, and Oin and Bofur pounded the earth in amusement. 

Yet Balin came no further than the entrance to the cave. He halted only to pick up the basket of food and then, with a wink, turned sharply on his heel and disappeared back inside.

Silence fell once more, stunned this time. When a full minute passed with no more sign of Balin, a chorus of groans marked the others' defeat. Only Nori was laughing now, grinning broadly as Gloin tossing a purse of money his way. He opened it up and flipped one of the coins to Ori, who caught it and then shrugged sheepishly in the face of several curious looks.

"Mr. Balin always stares at Dori when he comes to the restaurant," he confided.

The groans were renewed. 

"Hard luck," Bilbo murmured to Bofur, who was tugging on his moustache in dismay.

"Eh?" Bofur asked, shooting a small frown his way.

Bilbo made a vague hand gesture towards the cave and patted him on the shoulder in what he hoped was the universal symbol of sympathy for romantic rejection.

"Ah well," Bofur said, snagging one of the baskets of berries to share and then flashing him a sudden smile. "I wouldn't know, having spent the night out here, but the way I heard it, Balin's the only one Dori's let see him for days. No surprise there, then."

Bilbo blinked. "I...beg your pardon?"

Bofur's smile grew wider and, Bilbo suspected, more teasing. "They're in negotiations. Mark my words, there'll be a marriage contract drawn up before we make the mountain."

"Not that part," Bilbo protested. "I mean to say, I think I would have noticed if you had spent the night out here."

Bofur shook his head with an unconvincingly innocent expression. "Your eyes must be going, Bilbo. I was playing dice with Bifur and Dwalin and Oin here all night."

Bilbo rolled his eyes, which were just fine, thank you very much.

"Funny," he said, forbearing. "I could have sworn you weren't."

Bofur outright grinned and bumped Bilbo's shoulder with his own. "Nah. A choosy fellow like Dori? He wouldn't go off with four scruffy hobs the likes of us."

"Balin did the work of five dwarves by the sounds of it," Gloin commented slyly.

Bifur chimed in, and all Bilbo caught was Balin's name and a startlingly succinct hand motion that made everyone assembled burst into raucous laughter. 

Everyone, that was, except for Dwalin, who protested around a mouthful of breakfast: "It isn't any bigger than mine!"

Bilbo could not help but notice that Nori straightened up in interest at that.

An utterly horrific conversation then ensued about the virtues of length versus girth and the matter of relative proportions. No, Bilbo had to conclude as the talk very nearly put him off his mushrooms, dwarves were not at all shy. They were only irksome. 

He sighed very quietly in mingled affection and exasperation and took advantage of their distraction to secure for himself a generous heap of berries and venison, with a portion set aside for Thorin. So animated did the debate become that only Bilbo seemed to notice when Balin and Dori came out and settled at the edge of the cave with their breakfast and tea. He surreptitiously craned his neck for a better view.

The pair sat with their heads bent together as they exchanged quiet words, looking every bit as content and tender as a pair of courting hobbits. Dori had a glow about him that did not seem entirely owing to sole use of the hot water, and his hair was bound up rather more simply than usual. Balin, for his part, had obviously reacquainted himself with a comb. Nonetheless as Bilbo watched, Dori reached over and smoothed out the forks of Balin's beard, winding one end around his finger until it matched its twin.

Bilbo hid a smile and gave them their privacy, looking up at the deep blue sky above smudged with white clouds. The sun was golden, and the day promised to be lovely. It looked nothing like the Shire, this far-flung place with its cloak of trees covering the steeply tilting rocks, and as the wind stirred, ruffling his hair, he was glad that he had come this far to see it.

They would be moving along soon enough, marching onwards to the Lonely Mountain, but for the moment loneliness seemed far from everyone's minds. Perhaps there would be fishing, and hunting and gathering in the good weather as they readied themselves for the road. Perhaps too, Gandalf would provide once more and there would be hospitality waiting for them, with bread and salt and a proper bathtub.

And perhaps, he thought, looking back once more with fondness at where Thorin slept, there would be time to learn more about the maddening ways of dwarves.


End file.
